In between the roof-light rafters
Beneath the flattened lead
Cool air in a regenerative recirculation
Still yet moving, slow air moving slowly
Than the breath of silence
Slower than the breeze
Of the black cloaks breezing
Striding out down the aisle with a purpose
To say all of those old words
That the roof-space freely had you thinking
To read out, shout even, praising other men’s verses
Worse then than to leave you leaving
Without your own meditation
Without your own memories
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