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This poem is taken from PN Review 248, Volume 45 Number 6, July - August 2019.

Wyatt’s Voice Ian Patterson
The cover felt like a homage between the landscape of docks,
a breakfast shift by the bicycle shed that ignored a collapse
outward before climate change had a plan using reclaimed
bricks shrunk to the visitor it might have been. This is not
built of active cells, it ties explicitly rhythmic light to opening
the space that dreams it in place of matter, not of the term’s
displaced opacity, an opaque capacity from the ideal earth to
flounder in the thread we are calling the act itself built from
the edge of blank stones at the top. Big sacks outright baked
surfaces in a room somewhere in between. Matter tends a
stance letting go the letter developed in the work, four words
that must be said inside through a visible stone water level doing
what they do best like me in metal, hearing the news. The
surface speaks because of credit in time with greyscale unease.

Referred back desires were discussed in a familiar glow until guilty
things and rash disguises did for his own betrayal in ruins by

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