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Tomas Weber



Tomas Weber is from Jersey. He has a pamphlet of poetry called The Small Stones (Perdika Press). His poems have appeared in Great Works, Thieves Jargon, Blackbox among others. The following poems are Untitled.



We two shall not move, are birds both,
gesture and breath-still. Flying
faster into position our bodies a far
off alarm sounding the stars
are doomed. Beacons in the sky
alert passers to dark and
the dark in the body is still weeping.
Light only in rocks until the splitting
up we have outgrown knowledge as
a thing like brightness. My name is
too old for certain things like singing.
The ground is one note held long and old
pianos. Sand cupped blacked with sea your
heavy eye stained by lateness the weight
of flight. So come now night and show us
the sky by your speed.


Flat stones standing we grow only
inward the dead reach in. If fixed in
distance the decline alone forms the proper
gesture. I am measured against the strength
of the sky to stop me. What we have we
ordered strong so to stay, we give names
to that which we cannot return. I know
you and know less the world. Distance
as strong weather I stand I cannot be
dry my mouth moves. Storms descend
in their own way deep into the rocks
we used to measure day. Death a cloud
the roof built long before the flight we
shall not climb further down for where
the ground is. Invested in the very idea
of descent we know well how to fetch
return, that it will come and go long
before we have had enough. Stood up
by a future that protests its own
loneliness the lines swept across a face
your thought of me a moan the rain now
is tied to the process. And still the end
will be more difficult, the simple symptom,
that we will fail in our misunderstanding
of the room, that after all the dark
walls shall matter, the heavy roof, water
dragged your thought to the coast.
And the shade we feel now is the air
transfered into something less than
a mixture, we breath here in the light
and we are early.







copyright Tomas Weber