Manna ash Stephanie Powell the manna ash is weeping sugar a tart nest, almost honey. from a balcony in the city its flowers appear only just thicker than dust. from up here it is always looking ready for take-off. trunk bitten with holes like mouths for singing, like a good choir on a clear day. its roots waiting at the edge of an ocean of concrete. a hedgerow, a line of kneeling dissidents. a couple of cans of stella like loose teeth in the branch-mess. the people down there too shaped into blank spoon bends of the a-roads, the city blocks. these buildings, always looking halfway through a song that starts – oh grace, oh grace, oh grace.
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