a weighty fog

like tinned milk 

sweetly opaque 

hiding the feathers and tears

traces of a an empty place called

heaven.

these beads rest on hats

press down on weary brows and

weave between the fibres

of gloves

of family 

such a slippery thing, this life. 

like a rain you can't catch on your tongue 

but the taste weaves between your

thoughtful mol...

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