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Number 9: Winter 2013

Five Poems

Kate Behrens


Saints on a Rood Screen Dado


You lie in an East wind

spinning off empty barley fields

in new pink saxifrage collar.


They can’t provoke some absences,

and where a master-stroke began

ends in precarious lines


(four are almost entire

some half there

some in a kind of limbo) –


I guess, through criss-crossed light

your bones are just that,

a life’s long pentimento


before your mouth enunciates

adjusting to casual quiet,

my near-future’s insidious whisper.


It’s like devotions real purpose

makes me a listening absentee,

there’s nothing but desirous colour


saying ‘Ambrose’, ‘Augustine’

‘Gregory’, ‘Jerome’,

or not ‘there’, but ‘everywhere’.