Who are you, little engine, little mirror in the storied dream? Highrise above the future fairground, small person in the small room, recall them there, from your height now, sparkling. It is night, and all its things, gone and remain. Sydney Radclyffe’s Little Black Engine speaks in hushed tones with the human poem, the text itself formed from texts written fifteen years before the most recent writing (a few months prior to publication), distills the person palimpsest into a bittersweet drop, reflecting what is out there, dancing in its depths with what has been. All aboard!
(A5, 130gsm, 23 pages)
£8
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