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“A meeting point for poets of all latitudes”
— VĂ­ctor Rodríguez Núñez

Brian Johnstone, from The Book of Belongings

Title Shot

There is nothing but these roads
we drive on night by night,

nothing but this rain
thrumming on the windscreen,

and road-kill littering the verges
we hurtle past,

like an endless tracking shot.
You lay your head upon my arm

each touch a confirmation that the take
is still in focus, the foreground sharp.

Our lights sweep round a corner,
make angles on the ceiling of some room.

I ease my foot back from the throttle,
listen as the engine whirrs, like film.