Today's poem is by Tim Dooley
Some came in trucks, bedded down as ballast
between the manifold and the manifest,
or in white vans hidden behind white goods,
or clinging on carriage tops to Ebbsfleet.
Others came by sea. Imagine hazel
tarred and twined or wicker threaded into
basket-boats, the recruiting sergeant's shilling,
or furs brought downriver by raft. Then this.
Part of my mind has forgotten itself
already, slipped into the off-white wall
of the interrogation room, finding
faces etched in the floorstains, ready to
be investigated like a fragment
of text scraped onto pottery or bone.
Copyright © 2017 Tim Dooley All rights reserved
from The Sound We Make Ourselves
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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