Saturday, 6 April 2013


Those landscapes never 
where impersonation made me beautiful
snows darker than rivers
the mirror’s tumble from its tightrope

The house turns inside out
poverty of furniture
a rich robe of purple cloud
the mirror racing across its curtain rail

Evidence of early cultivation
or perhaps silence was a signal
a giant could step from there to then
the mirror concealed in its booth

This suburb is only ever here
my impersonation makes me exist  
or never wind whistles corners round
the mirror murmurs muteness

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