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By Cassie Lewis

Rock quartz next to a fence with upturned faces.

On the hill, on the other side

a storm, or plausibly, you.

Time keeps its footsteps regular until it is clapped upwards:

a falcon glides into view.


Dissolving into the pool in a splash of white,

I saw you. In summer,

the town goes to the drive-in.

The edges of the coin keep moving

as I stare at images through goggles, they

fog out.


Rooms go to pieces, sometimes, quietly. Curtains

are no longer red, now they’re dusty. The cat

moves. The room turns ocher

and shifts, as wind blows through.


O Brecht’s sky of streaming blue. It’s been days since I opened the book

my face is watching. Cupboards slam in another part

of the flat. The room reassembles,

but it’s different now —

outdated.


Poet Bio

Cassie Lewis is a Melbourne poet currently living in Rochester, New York. 

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