As merry as the day was long, I wandered, winderly,
Demure amber, skyward, encased the thread of day,
And I read the benches of the barely dead.
.
Planted I turned to the lake,
As, aimlessly, the moorhens mawked and paddled,
Away,
The slithers of the day,
Circling and encircling, nothing, a moment.
.
And showed a commitment to that aegis,
that I could not,
As I read the benches of the barely dead,
and thought.
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Chris(topher) is a doctoral researcher at the University of Warwick. He researches the turn-of-the-twenty-first-century fiction and poetry of the North Atlantic Archipelago and the Caribbean, focusing on the intersection of literature, political philosophy, poststructuralism, post-critique, and the state. He is currently writing on the aesthetics of the secret in fiction.
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