Flinching

Philip Booth 41 FLINCHING / Philip Booth Crossing from where he has been to where he even less wants to go, hollow of sleep, faced by the moon, he feels animals in him eat at their reins. Marooned between lines of opposing traffic, he tries to get off the island ledge: he prays to Polaris, and wakes without sun, the morning opera already howling. Distrusting the natives two valleys west, he steals along clamflats; waves breed waves twice as high as his head: wherever he moves is over the edge. ...