James Roome





The Book

“Come, wet book, dearest receiver
of little gifts.
I didn’t believe her
when she said you would lift
the world a little closer.

“I carried you to the sky
on wings, sprouted
from my cyclops eye.
Together, we scouted
hills and valleys, alive

“with muttering
trees.” Book became
autumn leaves.

The Clear

In this dream
I am several – a wren
smuggled in the plumes of an eagle –
the calling of men
through morning’s dull.

We rise, clear
over land and sea,
over veils cast, sheer,
suspended by cities,
over the lull

of Stratosphere,
of sleep.

The Cyclops

I slew Gogmagog with an endless sword
of rain.

I vaulted the ocean’s deepest rifts, clothed only
in weeds.

I reached beneath the meadow of stars, withdrew
a shining gift –

a stone, red in evening, cool as a pillow
by an open window.

And now I reach for the hand, limp in sleep, buried
in the hair of time,

its fingers curled, as if beckoning
my circle eye.



James Roome is a poet and teacher from Manchester. He believes in grass, trees, sky, hair, and Belgium. Further than that, he can’t say

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