Tuesday, 7 February 2012

Next Stop

Silent as an empty bird

cage on the moon.

can we whistle this

shall die as poor as,


Nostalgia. yr. paper fingers

shiny all night,

with painkillers at earlobes

they have this peculiar dance


stood on the wall looked out at the snow

as it falls through houses and gets into your name

whatever we say they say it back to us

until we are disappearing.

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