Mark Heathcote (22/03/66 / Manchester)
Hapless in choosing our beginnings...
What price this core of knowledge-eats?
—Out of canker or worm; which retreats?
He who rises to gaze at the moon in safety,
Or she who just stagnates never full or empty.
They’re your brother and sister sibling, child—
Their corruption is pure innocence exiled.
You must learn their habits in amazement’
They’re your mother and father, barking grievant.
We’re all hapless in choosing our beginnings …
We even drink to forget their inner outer ripples
But to make amends we mature like golden apples
Stored reeking of cinnamon, and shadows ebbing …
Pungent alcohol tranquilizes our furthest reaching …
Until the rustling harvest wind sings calls us longing.
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