London at Night | Greta Bellamacina

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the unbearable night

the night building which washes water

the night wind which sounds like trapped radiator spirits

the night red light mill

the night full of ship tears

the night window that pains

the mystery that calls you old-fashioned

the night meadow of drafts

the water you would plant under the ground

to save a generation.

The night walls that shudder flowers

the night woman who is bare

the equal distances from arms and closed eyes

and gardens that makes a city wide.

The great face of street kingdoms

the letting of strangers

with metal coloured necks and the sex of swans.

The night cars that are already knocked at doors

the eyes of god lamps

the night love of dead trees

the five stoned fat of sunlight behind the night

the nights spangle of solace

the park firing of birds

the parks angels

the denial of kneeing

the fear of the colour grey

the night that is your collar bones

the night which is a wife

the nights common breath

the night watching over the year

and requiting the vertical fires of land

with sea-sore heads.

The unforgiving night

the polite notion of restarting and the barking of roses.

The night skin of summer

the eight ways you became bother and sister

for the sake of rainwater

freely whiter than burnt wood.

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Poetry by Greta Bellamacina

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Poetry & Prose Editor

Champ Magazine

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Image: The Serpentine Galleries’ Magazine Restaurant

Photographed by Champ

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