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Monday, 16 October 2017

49

I am at one, here in the present
Stoking up the fire with logs
From under cover out in the frost

I was the lucky one, then as now
Finding a shoulder to rest my arm on
Whispering sweet nothings; nothing no more

In search of symmetry
I recognise that the wood storage boxes
Need their own force of realignment

And where did that fine light go
Did it sink back into the heavens
So I suppose; I suppose nothing no more


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