A poem by Joshua Stanley
THE RETURN
He comes back to the sink as sharp as a fiddle
return like a conquering turner, returning
ore sooty ground to plug in the whole,
returning
stained
with profit.
Sorely and dishy scrubbed shines with victory,
the day comes back triumphant and
in purple robes gets up.
We, as ethical consort admitted thus as logical geography, false in the centre of town, so is we rejected before movement, yet weeping to carry out action: one cannot speak for sight; one only speaks for seeing. In any case, carnal gusto groupie posed sum question: through hard as nails throng, discovered tardy way of boughthood and the dance for and back economics, whilst happy go shopper is smiling at plough share.
‘I was born & this
‘is what
‘I am’.
The light cord too long plotted, beyond the paper in the library thin silence, watch it with carried present, crunch to the seat in front. There shall be time if you can be patient.
‘Consciousness is the return’. I see: a
name was asked by the dumbstruck tongue,
moving up
& down &
in the carriage & on
the railroad of collection,
the postal line:
in a bag, yes, the hand moved out and atom.
‘My name is
dawn intervened
so crafty on her rosy pasty, setting
out from the start whilst
ever surprising.
But you can read lips yes eyes can: we have to go this way now.
