Two points, a bearing is at hand; and character is –
there's one of the fiercest, time looming
large on the face – a sounding measure.
The buzz of copper bells, another note is added;
come up to shore and exhaust.
The landscape journal soaked with firm setting
delays. The new signal carries bassoon notes
up to the dome and amongst a nexus of clouds;
context rising through, an air compression.
Be that as it may: who's scuttled overground?
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Oh, to write a poem that goes nowhere in particular. Written whilst listening to The Foghorn: A Celebration.
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