Poem: lookout/outlook by Alan Whitfield


Smelling salts provoke senses

make me watch,

make me Stair,

as the ballet is performed.







The Humbug sheen

pulls you to its fulcrum

in and in,



Again playing,

moving your mind.

Pockets rise as it breath before me

reaching far returning near.


A Line so long straight

like a taught table lace.

Only when you look so far

does evolving stop.


Dark gray lightens

as black mass encroaches

still tight, but moulded angular

Does it come to great

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