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in collection Winter Hands, 2007,
Shadowtrain Books, ISBN 978-0-905127-13-2;
first published on


Fairground Man


dark hair curling round your ears, smell of generators and cigarettes and dirty denim, you open the door to my skin the ride of my life the holding on the screaming inside the slowly letting it out needing the breath of your sweat to take me in. you watch me as I circle you, and I am your dog on a string, your caravan.

cold staring towards the back of a field where later we might lie on trampled dandelions and stinging nettles, I imagine you taste of garlic and cumin and wood smoke, and with these blue lights tracing across my eyes, shouting go faster, your voice is the lashing of rain against a water drum.

calloused hands and rough broken skin, you call me darling as close to my ear as a man can be, your mouth a pile of damp leaves, your shoulders are burial mounds, your chest the bed of a river I want to get down on my knees and lean into.

take me into the dark of the field, where stars are below us in the stretching arms of streetlights, where dogs bark in the distance and my name is humming with engines.

Annie Clarkson


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poetry favourites:  ShadowTrain
Lancaster Litfest
Stride Magazine
Book Munch
Salt Publishing
Literature North West

and in the shop ...
collection -
"Winter Hands",

in anthology -
"The Big Picture",
Lancaster Litfest


of all poems featured on this site remains with the poet
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