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Likestarlings is a place for talking in poems. We pair poets with poets and they write a sequence of six new works by responding in turn to one another. Our palaver blog goes beyond poetry to discuss collaboration in theory and in practice. Please take a look, and feel free to add comments, opinions and suggestions here. Read poems here
 

Last of August


Late, a wasp alights on a dropped crabapple.
A low highway roar and sparrow twits.
The air, brisk though still.
The drone, low though there.
Nothing will happen in the yard all afternoon.
Then a shift in the sky and the colours lighten and intensify.
As though a knob were turned.
Infinite ceiling, says the screen.
What clouds there were now hang south, over the lake.
The water darker under them.
A cabbage moth, a fly.
The air a loose net of things.
And again lighter.
A frond wags.
Not hello.
The red plastic shutters on the white plastic house heat up.
The flowering almond innocuous all these months past blooming.
A done deal this isn't.
In the math of it, there is no answer.
No need for a window onto it.
The air a pocket of lint.
As useless as the world.
A squirrel moves across.
From here to there.
The air a bag of air.
A wasp moves on.
A cricket does what crickets do and the air quickens.