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Homo Erectus; Through a Glass

Olivia Byard

Dec 01 2013

1 mins

Through a Glass

 

Old glass was spun in circles,

and we’ve fathomed only after centuries

the blower’s thickened edges

 

blur a blued and pocked window pane;

but Pilkington’s float-glass hasn’t

mystery, just industrial perfection

 

uniform, mundane. So when I glance

out at new-fledged chicks,

grappling for balance in the creamy

 

hawthorn hedge, I don’t lose them

through a misted whorl storm

but from a quick prod by time.

 

Outside, though, in raw blossom scent,

an ancient rite awaits me still,

in the feathery scruffs’

 

edgy session, of dust ruffles

tail-tips, apprentice trills. This

stolen stretch an endorphin rush

 

tears up my naked sight—

unmasked tenderness, a nascent

soaring, impatient for flight

 

Olivia Byard

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