by Christos Polydorou
Wherefore art thou, beginning, and end?
No where to be found.
Grass grows green and tall, out the ground,
and the berries grow heavy with colour, in the rustling bushes.
We find ourselves in the midst of things.
The mist mornings bring.
Looking for the doors
to our insides and outsides
our singulars and our plurals:
You may not kill all beasts
so you ought to hunt with them,
is the lesson I learned
the fifth or sixth time I was burned.
In 1727 when I was living in Edinburgh
I was a falconeer.