One might recognise, if this collection appeared without the poet’s name, that this was by Martin Domleo, for it contains all that we have come to admire in his best work. In particular, the painstaking care in lexical choices, the intensity of thought, the telling imagery and the compassionate yet faintly sardonic take on human nature.
Mike Ellwood

Nothing Is Still

Everything moves, outside, inside,
diamond, tungsten, dust.                            

On the switchback ride
along the curved horizon,
nothing is still.

Now is history –
as soon as you’ve said it.
There’s no escaping one-way Time:
onwards, forwards

until Rush Hour comes,
you collection of particles, you.

Things are thrown awry,
stretched and pulled;
spiralling galaxies claw at the lip,
pause, topple and lunge
like grape-shot
back into the barrel.
No crush, no queuing,
no turning back
from the face-to-face
fracture too swift for thought.

Clocks stop:
end of matter,
end of dreams,
The End.
Only nothing is still.

Until, until...the next odds-off lottery
lines up ten million digits;
with a showman’s shout,
dares to disturb perfect peace.