Chris Mansell

The beekeeper

the population controller Slips into disguise His charming suit His veil of words Conceals his gaze He has laid out the fields And filled them with blossoms And counted the money jars In his


the yellow legged plovers live at the university and stare down Pale students who dare to walk near them We like them They are the smartest things around with their brown caps and stiffish

Where edges are

She is effulgent in the dark halls of town. She is listening but they are hearing. Her skin is blistering and sharp with sparks. She is listening for the crick of grass underfoot. They

The good soldier

on someone else’s place It seems to him the land Slings distance way out The dirt is dead and The sky seems twisted The beat of the stones is wrong He doesn’t know how

The unquiet city

we are succulents Our cool jade arms open Over clean tables our fine bone China minds pull the strings Of our tongues together we plait Our thoughts with the television Back through the aerials


there are times When you should listen To the world I think Like for instance The time a meteorite came Through the roof and Through the ceiling and Landed on my desk in the