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Anonymous
Up there in the swingers' district
where only the houses close their eyes
the mile of grass is an aired plain
every three lights one disappears
an interchange and a parting
a fox-fur collar fumbling at a door
open, shut, silence.
Late afternoon the cars glide
back from colour film and carpet ride.
Whistling twilight, the summer
is a newspaper frown.
You open the wi...
Saturday 19th November 2016 4:29 pm
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