Written by Jack Andrew Cribb
This poem was taken from my first collection ‘OUTLANDISH’
Focus on the minutiae. That last little light
descending the axon
part of the soul, little light.
Eighty-six billion, moths made of embers.
Apparitions wrapped in myelin
electric swinging from the vines.
Two hundred to four hundred billion,
silver and purple and red and blue in the sky, milk of complexity and chance,
link ourselves to those
Carry on 86, carry on for him,