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This poem is taken from PN Review 249, Volume 46 Number 1, September - October 2019.

Two Poems Jo Davis
In which attraction is sensible only at insensible distances

Unfinished, the rain withdrew like a boxer after a combination.
The pavement, still luminous with the idea the rain had lit,
Still norepinephrine-bright from its wild rush, has a butterfly,
A tortoiseshell, all its tones more tawny than ordinary, gleaming
As a guitar resined with tender copal.
                                                                           And the butterfly
Has half its wing riding on its own back, detached, dragged
From its thorax by desperation to fly, to be free from the
Surface tension saturating the spiracles that gave it
Breath, sopping it to the earth.

Oh, Brexit, Brexit, Brexit! Hard Brexit, hard science, hard shoulder!
The pavement, the pavement, the pavement. The flagstones’ fever sweat!
The last hope, the last hope. The imageless and the abstract.
What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?
I'm trying not to step on the cracks in the continent. Once,

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