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Three poems by Sam James.



What should I lament,
losses of forests, hope,
or even direction? No,
only time poorly spent.

How has it been used,
to lay out the preface
of a concept’s surface?
Time has been abused.

Shall we bring to fruit
the flowers of the tree,
shall we, from the root,
rise tall enough to see
the sole of some divine boot;
and then, perhaps, be free?



There’s no lack
of eyes
the butterfly
on its back
the greatest eye
cannot see
though it freely
blinks in flight
and when it lands
on the lilac’s
many tiny hands
opening its back
I understand
what vision lacks.


Loose Stiches.

make a little flap,
the quiet laugh
of a cotton cap.

An Irish worker
would like it
for her lover.

A peak for a smile
out of trend;
a rim, an end.

The lining, the inside
of the mouth,

An object made to be
thrown up
or dashed down

in acts of love;
tragedy, comedy.

Samuel W. James is from Yorkshire. His poems can be found in Allegro, The Eyewear Review, The Literary Hatchet, Amsterdam Quarterly, London Grip, Clockwise Cat, Peeking Cat, Scarlet Leaf Review, Sentinel and Ink, Sweat and Tears. This is his first appearance in The Fortnightly Review.


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