Saturday, 31 December 2016


When free, revert
to the same

& shame, spoke
the wind, the fennec
fox; and then came past.

There are other tracks
to take to wear
down not
but new ones

and test to remain so
her fennec completely vanished

bellowing head in the wind she spoke
out over the countenance
track becoming, old.

Staying put the same forty
four windows staring
cooked the bolt the bolt gored me

finally where the opened toad
cracks mouth to mouth, halt this

awkward tangible

gallant audition sequence heart

tawse or worse spit on your hair lint
going the bag you puddled drive
entry, so back to the doors.

What did You do to her? How are
the chances the door is exactly two feet squared.

It’s pinched
as well as squared
and is marked up in water

like anything but actually.
You can’t ask for guidance.
There feels

suspicious. The mouth. Waiting, eerily
by the window the summer ascents
notes up what we’re to do.
But not knowing, a blurry must

where people end.
Themselves or one another.
A dot on the scale
of hesitancy, waiting hell
for the end in

sight or crashing at it.

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