Jamie Robertson

No Oaks Stand Old brick-and-iron brewery, borders invaded by brushes of fennel, by wildgrass home to shipping containers, to refrigerated units, fans spinning only when the southerlies blow the wildgrass doesn’t mind my father worked here my father died here and the grasses grow on, grow tall as the brewery sinks, and the wind whistles I pray for strong roots and liquid head, I pray to become the grass     Drown Mondays The best way I found to catch my seven-twenty train is to miss the seven-o-five, be late and grow a glut of yin from the corpses of“Jamie Robertson”

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