By S.J. Finn
Falling Forward
The street swings backwards
Poet S.J. Finn
as a pumping fuel-line waves around
like advertising. The outline of tree
(kerb bound) is shaking, free; half there,
half here, the difference settled upwards
from a pavement glassed and swept.
My eye floats (a phone-box fenced off is
ringing) something stitched together
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wheeling about like good oil
to the blood. Straight lines bend
It's all a matter of reverb and retalk.
Can we be bound into movement
as callouts are curtailed into drafts
of peat and damaged earth?
It all flies in swirls to form new ground.
We trample across it, our feet taking measure
of hillocks and hollows and runnels and rivulets,
and still we proceed along the incline of things.
S.J. Finn
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