In Clover

half-light of sentience
and the quiet
performing miracles
on the inner ear

a man steps out of gloom
steps back in again

another raises a glass -
wine like whisky
stains his lips

clouds roll and tumble
towards the moulded distance,
fumble peaks 
those far, bleak ranges
on their way by 

the human eye
and infinity, barely 
connect, the distance is 
too great
our perspective is

our body rumours,
antennae of hairs,
barely work outwith
the circumference of armreach -
our intelligence must do the rest
must work towards correction

the higher our mind-flights
the less we feel the earth
between our toes -
we are in danger of losing much:
of losing all conspiracy 
with the life our eyes see
the wind our ears hear
the elemental rush of blood
in fingertips
but most of all, the precious pressure
of god's lips 
on our forehead

is brave enough
to bear the weight of the bee
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