And can it be our voices need consoling,
well we only link our voices at footy,
guess he’d never been, corporate projection
while naive alveoli clutch each other;
there, a new tune circling, sacrifice your
skewed larynx to a set of organs preying,
howling at glass burned clear; where are the choir’s
eyes? noble chords gilding trudged axioms,
here among whoever we are, flapping still
with sweaty paper shields, dank numbers listing,
destitute lessons for those who would sing hymns.

Ben Walter

Ben Walter’s stories, essays and poems have appeared in Lithub, Meanjin, The Lifted Brow and many other publications. He is the fiction editor of Island.

More by Ben Walter ›

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