1206
21.iv.23
4.111
life gets shorter
what’s real is what we remember
there will be less of a struggle ahead
the teeth for instance
nerves shrink
and the sense of smell
numbers keep track of me
one is always some way upside down
less to suffer
time is running out
or we could all be with it
shelves full of the dead
and a wardrobe too
they crowd my head
till join them
no one will know the utterly echoes
we’ll keep
voices below any threshold of hearing
in a dusty frame for a while
then vaulted
or perhaps to ground
with just little light
be wondered
Caesar, Alexander, bloke in a barrel
Cleo and Budica
‘who were they?’
no one might say
yet still just as much having been
I dreamt the sun was louder
laid out in blank pages like this
flat, now finished
gone to time
sleep is the last word
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