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This poem is taken from PN Review 256, Volume 47 Number 2, November - December 2020.

The Fools and other poems Lucy Tunstall
The Fools

The way they walked to church over the fields and made everything milk white.
The way the heat-haze took them out by the ankles and that cloud of white
hair that could actually have been cloud. The way they swam in and out
of sight like a pair of stupid moons behind clouds, a kind of cut-out
flatness that made you want to push them all the way over
and drive a steamroller over them real slow.


I married a machine that could reconfigure itself. The machine
survived everything. The function of the machine was to burn fuel.

The machine made everything machine-brand – machine-brand
coffee, machine-brand daisies, machine-brand duvet-cover.

My eyes were very heavy when I looked at the machine. To me
the machine looked like a machine, but to other people it looked
like other things.

Parts of the machine were vintage to show originality. The vintage

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