Poetry from Mark Young

The Confines

It is
a glamour, this
being trapped 
inside without
the sensing of
an outer shell.

Im-
measurable.
Direction-
less.

Who cast the — who
cares? It’s where
you find yourself.

*

Although told 
otherwise
there are 
ways out. It’s 
just that 
finding them requires 
a knowledge of the 
arcane that is 
rarely found.

*

& in
addition needs 
an essential ability 
to mix & 
match the elementals, 
to pick the ones 
with most efficacy, to 
point them in 
the right direction.
 
& still 
the element 
of chance has 
final say. 

*

Too many
necessary things 
you can’t control.

*
 
Cartesian co-
ordinates, the 

oestrus cycle 
of monotremes, 

the light denying 
pictographs the time 

to form in 
distant galaxies. 

*

So why not trust 
entirely to luck, make 
do with what you’ve 
got or what comes 
easily to hand? 

The roads
are full of debris.

*

Each piece 
contains 
a measure of 
sympathetic magic.  

Marsupial bones, the 
coloured earth beside 
the bitumen, the flowers 
that are growing there. 

*

Include the artificial. 

Shredded rubber 
broken glass
a snapped aerial

a piece of mirror 
in which the past 
reflects the future.

*

All have to do 
with traveling.

Put together 
they might 
provide a path 
to get you 

out of here.

*

Trust in them
anyway. It’s what
maps are for.


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