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‘So, Dreams’ and three more poems.


So, dreams

I recall almost nothing

but the arc of history bends

to a serendipity, the flight of one finch

– I think one finch

– irreplaceably restless.

Address me letters that

exhort my help, signed

overleaf – as if applying for



The grass crisp under our
hands, short visit stirring,
we’re distracted by sounds of rain

– shutters opened then closed.
In the eye’s limit the mirror


The Cézanne
my floor, upended, is
A landscape; the Gulf of Marseilles.
It is,was it,it’s smudged, the letters fused
and shouting –
a fix!in retrospect still. I slept too long,
no better perhaps hungry.…..Her…..irises,
more delicate
than the sea’s topographics,
seem pale.

The morning star

buttons her cloak
and the moon is asleep
august unsteady hands
present and correctly

faced no makeup
just rain missing
light speech under
her breath.

Luke Emmett has just started a blog on the use of grotesque sensuality as a catalyst to combine language and art at separating the self from the senses. He also plans to start writing a series of poems based on Sōtō Buddhist koans.

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