RUNNER-UP, GWEN HARWOOD POETRY PRIZE 2023

i

To imagine the dead are running
short of space – I’ll call it unlikely, so much of it
going spare, idle, we’re most hectic at the edges.
I hollo long into the wintering acres, white
particles of grief touching a thing that hits another thing
hurtling towards an edge. You bring spectre only to strangers
because my longing is too great, my pull too strong.
At some point the moon will spiral in so near,
our ocean tides will tear it apart, & it will be sublime,
for a minute.