The Book of Funnels

sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I drag my sleeping bag
into the meadow’s precise center
& crawl inside, head first. Fräulein, there is the stars’
ceaseless drilling. I close my eyes. Somewhere below me
a star-nosed mole cuts its webbed hand
on a shard of glass. I close my ears
& over my body the current of a young doe
eddies, ripples across the field, a low-lying midnight fog
swirling after her, falling back, suspended. I know you are close.
The scar on my cheek burns. I think of reentering
your atmosphere,
your long, burning hair

Don’t move. The slightest motion

& this landscape, erased by floodlights

– Christian Hawkey

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