Martin Langford





Martin Langford



From the lounge,

you can penetrate space

through the high walls of glass:

wet space and burning space;

toy space, with baggage attendants—

space soft with cloud. It is

plotted with lines so the eye

can believe in perspectives.

Nose up, the great ships descend

and pick slowly through mazes.

Soon, they will nudge the peninsulas,

beasts at a crib.

Then wait

in a trance of vast shadows—

while the people lean into each other

as hard as they can—

then step back, again, into space

and the life of attention—

of trying to suss

what their species is thinking—

who this lover is—

what language requires them to do.



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