Précis by Robert David Verdon

précis my soul
how can I wander,
finding under my own
stones frogs I never spawned?

the higher the wind
the sharper the eye

cloistered wind

move into the suburbs of a hair
and forget the razor

even a duck can run on water

only a globule in space
coheres till it shatters

being exact is endless catching up
perfection sleeps

creeping under the circus tent of significance
pepper on a plate, more beautiful than asphalt

knit with light
the clocks put forward to eternity.

Robert Verdon
Robert Verdon has been writing for may years. He once belonged to Aberrant Genotype Press in Canberra. He came 2nd in the 2012 W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize, and was Highly Commended in the 2012 erbacce Prize, UK. His books include The Well- Scrubbed Desert, Her Brilliant Career, & Before we Knew this Century. He is currently completing PhD on the imaginal scene in poetry composition. His hobbies include cycling, walking and 10-pin bowling.

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