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165 pages, Paperback
First published August 6, 2001
Five pounds fifty in change, exactly,
a library card on its date of expiry.
A postcard, stamped,
unwritten but franked,
a pocket-size diary slashed with pencil
from March twenty-fourth to the first of April.
...
No gold or silver,
but crowning one finger
A ring of white unweathered skin.
That was everything
ankylosing meaning bond or join,
and spondylitis meaning of the bone or spine.
That half explains the cracks and clicks, the clockwork of my joints and discs,
the ratchet of my hips. I'm fossilising –
every time I rest
I let the gristle knit, weave, mesh.
My dear, my skeleton will set like biscuit overnight,
like glass, like ice, and you can choose
to snap me back to life before first light,
or let me laze until
the shape I take become the shape I keep.
Don't leave me be. Don't let me sleep.
To the far of the farwhich builds its tale up through these rough-hewn comparatives and superlatives to its bleakly compelling encapsulation of life in these isles.
off the isles of the isles,
near the rocks of the rocks
which the guillemots stripe
with the shite of their shite,
a trawler went down
in the weave of the waves,
and a fisherman swam
for the life of his life
through the swell of the sea
which was one degree C.
And the bones of his bones
were cooler than stone,
and the tide of his blood
was slower than slow.
...