Descending panting from the top
(where god is always in the lower case)
The wind bleached lichen
gives way to greener stuff.
We re-assert a modicum of breathless grace
and skirt the bog (why is such a vastness called a 'mere'?)
much as we skirt the subject
never managing to reach the nub of it.

At the bridge we part
before all our alibis expire.
In your face the rumour of a tear
and I am just a hank of woo...

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