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This poem is taken from PN Review 235, Volume 43 Number 5, May - June 2017.

Sequence Andrew Wynn Owen

Some days, out in a field, it hits my mind
        Like wind wings up a bird.
    Chiming with nature, fervours find
        Release. It has conferred
Eye-rhapsody, neck-shivers, fear-and-trembling
    As though the stable cosmos blurred
And burst with smudgy unity, resembling
            The better hits
        Of Turner, all assembling
            Around a blitz
    Of tireless light, which cannot die
            But simply splits
And sprawls. The well is deep. It will not dry.


Let’s say there’s evidence that ‘souls’ exist.

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