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Aberystwyth, February 1978

Standing at the brink

in off-brand corduroy, dyed wool

picking apart the sunbeams

with your one hand slowly

closing.

The funicular sings silent

the third curve of dust-white

aggregate is steeper still

and behind you lies

the vast bowl of swallowed

time, the shattered stopwatch

shards hanging loosely

quivering swords

over ripped Polaroid.

 

You drop the ...

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