Leg it over the terrain, let it lie there on the path. Regrout that old word trespass and go mad after the butterflies. Bring a big enough net to womb them all, buy a pole sturdy enough to vault over the tomb. Resample your movements from before. Frisbee that old vinyl against the fascia and sprint to drink the splinters in time. Get pedalling, and kick the beat into the eccentric clods. Rhyme reason with season on alternate lines, or go rondeau and keep it at two. Keep the band taut in autumn, let it snap open the pea pods when the sun rushes our banks. Don’t let the seeds swell. Bottle the winter frost in a Gibson and let a drab silhouette do the killing off your books. No need to leave prints. Running is a choice we make when we’re the heaviest. Let the pores saturate your whole outfit. Don’t eat before seven. Look back and bask in your own eclipse.
Ben Armstrong is a poet and editor based in the Black Country, UK. He is an alumnus of David Morley’s Warwick Writing Programme and has been featured in a variety of online journals and zines. His collections Perennial (2019) and After Tectonics (2021) are published by Knives, Forks and Spoons Press.