The morning is a castle mist,

a grey paint, ghost shroud.

Last night I dreamt we were lovers,

I took pen, paper, sealed green bottle,

wise and smiling, sucking the nib;

now suddenly I'm hunting down cracks,

placing my fingers inside and pulling-

(you said these fissures were only

a minor concern...slants

in the skirting, warm with the fading

central heating).

...

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