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Where is the invisible hand that drags me
Holds fast my feet of a thousand tonnes
And vacuums dawn's breath with eerie resolve?

What dream of abyss or flood or strangler fig
Tempts the darkness from its hole and folds
The bootlaces of early sunlight into my shoe?

Why is there an army of angry bees in my belly
Finding there a nest suitable for a thousand stings
Another thousand ways of ruining sleep?

Who stretches the very blight of the blackest hours
Thin and taut like a net of cauterised butterflies
Straining at the edges of any universe?

I have lost all idea. Whatever swirls below or above
What guts inside and from out, what whimpers meekly
From the driest seed, grows and gathers my fate.

© David Incoll 2001

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Copyright by David Incoll 2001