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james mcgonigal
Poet  •  Critic

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       Seeing the Light

of aurora borealis bamboozlingly far south
last night as we drove to our evening class
under a sky the colour of blood oranges

that pulsed as if the fruit could fizz
through pith and rind and then inhale
again to perfect segments

as if a doctor’s hand had moved
under the flesh of air to turn
the unsuspecting foetus of a star.

A brightness where the pain of many prayers
was anchored. The Firth of Forth opened
and closed its mouth at this orange walk

across the sky beyond the high flats

where folk like us, housekeeping in infinity
tapped out their codes, tapped out and in

their testament of clothed or naked lights.

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