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Silent Wash

It’s a direct drive of fifty litres

From me to you.

Six hundred miles north

Until I’m resting my eyes on your face:

That soothing easy care

From the dial and touch

Of your features

 

The mixed fabric of your voice

Trickling through my cells.

 

I am freestanding

But will bloom

When you enter the room.

 

Until then,

I’m in this intensive

...

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