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The Roast
My grandmother sits on the back step
I beside, and
my dear friend up there, at table.
There are birds in the sky
and the potted plants are nursing stitches.
I think I heard a cat jump
slink, fall,
escaping this domain of rust,
and smoke...
and the steam and the fire,
the roast, the white cloth and red
full hearts, having drunk their fill;
these wanderers flood a...
Wednesday 14th June 2017 1:47 am
Deliberations On Canvas
Lunar light touches your cheek
soft curls paint a border-line,
seized in pastel, black, grey, white
the mirror creaks, leaves rustle
and beneath in store for us they keep
in a locked chest, waxed, sealed,
the list of names, none too grand.
War-torn, a leaf falling
red imprints on fog-mired turf,
the spiral here is waning,
stroking October oil's mist,
the tracks' ...
Friday 13th May 2016 11:52 pm
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