tom taylor - the core

the core

all are dies not smoked but sent along these
waves have been the distance from now to
there in the marks along the floor intended
but remind you of other smells at dinner now

and then the larks portray their food and silence
into the morning’s air for all to seem the mark
and tempo of the dance along the beach at night
for longer roots are pulled the distance into now

where children rope and sing their games are met
with solace and the formal absolutes they crawl to
hear your voices marking the hour as your own and
slip the distant lines have spoken out as then to now