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Two poems

Georgina Edwards


Event Horizon

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.



Flight Folding

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 [1] is reading for a DPhil in German at Worcester College, Oxford.