I Can’t Make Neither
a head nor tail out of this beast
who shrugs and our ship yaws.
It’s pelt moves up and down beaches
as it shuffles along continents.
I can only see as its curled its face
and tail in sleep and we pitch
over its dreaming, every twitch
a ripple or wave as it hunts,
Continue reading “2 Poems by Paul Brookes”
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 