As expected, we found that in the orchard there was no earthly moisture, and that glass went to waste visually. Some surgeons quiesced, others billowed. They had no good reaction to the vile patch and perished there in obscurity. Once this was known, I made my way by car together with hundreds of others. Discovering water, concluding stone. <\/p>\n
[I’ve listened closely]<\/strong><\/p>\n I’ve listened closely to music, but prefer interviews or debates. I scratch away at a few identifiable causes; the self is a divisible product. I am typing compositions, anti-assessments, to breed more space \u2013 consider the road, no worse than another, and the cloud’s bank, which is not in fact white.<\/p>\n \f[The white lady]<\/strong><\/p>\n The white lady is able to see facts. My mother owned a good deal. This evening I am completed, not glad. Not. The beginnings of a coded reference \u2013 an argument. Mother closing always her bedroom. Close. Your face in morning. Afterwards, little action. Ma, are you serial? Well, a few.<\/p>\n The pupil<\/strong><\/p>\n We trialled without trouble until the process became a trap. We compared one tense, wherein everything could be explained in definite terms, and another \u2013 pale, unformed. What was our decision? Through the compression of a supervised winter, we turned into stones. Sat there, until we cultivated for ourselves a tangible moment.<\/p>\n \f[When I stand]<\/strong><\/p>\n When I stand, I do not wish to talk. When I leave, I wish to postpone. When I behold you, I pinch my bristle. (This is not negative with respect to connotations.) When your daughter carries off the saucer with meat, it is the prologue of a problem. I, already in a worn motor-car, am just one liaison in this scenario.<\/p>\n ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong> The white lady is able to see facts. By Sophie Collins.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":155,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-51119","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51119","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/155"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=51119"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51119\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=51119"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=51119"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=51119"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/10\/Photo-on-26-09-2012-at-11.33-300x200.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nSophie Collins<\/strong> was born in 1989 and grew up in North Holland. She moved to London in 2007 and studied poetry at Goldsmiths College and the UEA respectively. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mercy<\/em> and Oxford Poetry<\/em>, as well as the Clinic<\/em> and Stop Sharpening Your Knives<\/em> anthologies. She is currently working towards a PhD in Poetry and Translation at Queen’s University, Belfast.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/09\/whitelady-420x179.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nMy mother owned a good deal.
\nThis evening I am completed, not glad. Not.
\nThe beginnings of a coded reference \u2014 an argument.
\nMother closing always her bedroom.
\nClose. Your face in morning.
\nAfterwards, little action.
\nMa, are you serial? Well, a few.<\/p>\n