Poetry

Reap

Follow this one home, there’s hop on his breath / the sour sniff of salted soil. A slow proud ship that veers from North he slips into the verge, and dies / hazard lights beat / metronome.
You once saw a sheep like this; gaping mouth drying out, the body pulped to grass and stone.
Something touches his temple / hallowed grey-matter shrine, reverberates down neural pylons, synapse bites / hollows the eyes / severs his connections /

Catriona McLean