Luke Skywalker Cries Over Spilt Blue Milk On Coarse, Rough Sand

It’s doubly important not to stare at the suns here:
too luminous a future can blind. The hot air drags

thick with a weight that was not there yesterday

as an avuncular voice cracks across a dun dune,

directing me to oil this and evaporate that, purge

a pastime of all this hope. With grit under finger

nails, my hands dry-open before eyes that squint

-shut while my thoughts dwell on the chores but

then soar through a star-lit score. Flaxen words

fade against a cerulean so dark that black is the

only cue. I sigh. I wait. I toy with three clipped

wings and drop a half-empty cup. The screen is

wiped. Then, across the lone and level sands, I

hear – far, far away – destiny beep and whistle.

Luigi Coppola ( is a teacher, poet, first generation immigrant and avid rum and coke drinker. Bridport Prize shortlisted, Ledbury and National Poetry Competition longlisted, Poetry Archive Worldview winner’s list, publications include Worple Press’ ‘The Tree Line’, AcumenInk, Sweat and TearsIotaMagmaRattle and Rialto.

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