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Owen Lucas

Down, snows!

Our garden, dark bouche,

Swallows your ferment.

Had I known your coming

Would be from darkness,

I would have left a lamp before you,

At the heel of the path.

You father out your formlessness in shoals :

Dim cloudbody, suspended

Above the rooftops,

Drifting with the silent grace of a cephalopod.

Our thoughts may

Dart out their patterns into the gloom,

And you will not be exhausted in it,

For your darkness is as the soil

That takes the fall of lightning

And the coursing rain

And forges itself anew in each.

Come down to us where we watch for you,

Celebrator of surfaces, dolmen of voices!

Our memory that flies into its own forms

Waits for your touch :

It is as you have been.Come forth now.

Owen Lucas is a British poet living in Norwalk, Connecticut. He grew up in rural Cambridgeshire and began writing as a student at the University of London. His first chapbook was recently published by Mountain Tales Press, and his work has previously appeared in Petrichor Machine, The MacGuffin, Psychic Meatloaf, and others.

  
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