On being asked to contemplate a deep and sensual poem on kisses and make some kind of intuitive response, outside; an object an action whatever.
I don’t want to do it

I stand too close to a terrible edge so I turn towards the steep hill behind
where I am hearing long tailed tits calling
echo call
echo call
I stop half way up and stare through a deep tangle of hazel and silver birch branches
I stare hard until the branches dance, until I can blink and make complicated fork lightening manes in the air
againthe fire that is made when earth and air meet

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