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19.ix.25
poem in real time
for wise
surprise
door ajar
a draft
by hand
dream
these streets again we’ve borrowed
days, a
busk – too much of me
and birds
float through
a first
thing in the heart
seeping
stain
come
tongues, taste
bake it up
– serve bright
a
cigarette, the train comes
the fallen
words brushed aside
in the
yestering
nostalge it
– sing
bones of
it
a wisp
away
my paean
to life, the marvel
under lock
and key
where pick
up speed
the poem
is reached by ladders and ropes
a
burnished cloud at the head
machine
for idiots, the day
nights
dreamt and gone
and some
fool fly comes in to die
must have
let it in
dance
around the object till
not so
much lo and behold
as get a
wriggle on
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