Reaching out to the inimitable
To capture that phrase, like beetle dust
That scatters sparks sizzling across the nerves
Blazing a trail out of this black hole
Curving round – the event horizon.
Do we draw this arc through the omnipresent sky
Or unwittingly are drawn with it, like a sleeping man
Rolling over in his sheets.
I fold a flight
At my desk, in my mind,
Corner to corner, white on rustling white,
It wafts rather than soars
Falls flat without a horizon.
Georgina Edwards  is reading for a DPhil in German at Worcester College, Oxford.