Stretching of a bird through the darkness
Space has the structure of a view.
It stands near the water
You need less.
White cuts fill the sky, the cell
Of a god who has lost count
But still hope.
Is it over? We cannot all be blessed
With bodies arranged like horizons.
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The bird makes a calculation.
Panicking away from the experiment
Life can be.
Look
behind me
The hours are deepening.
The air is suddenly ablaze with questions
She wants to avoid.
Yasmine Seale is a poet, translator and visiting professor at Columbia
(Further reading: Poem NS: Weekend visit)
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This article appears in the April 22, 2026 issue of the New Statesman, All alone
