Poetry from Mark Young

The Confines

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


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


Although told 
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 
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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