So you’ve spent a year:
sucking from the same pipe,
writing of the blow by blow
and fighting, endless fighting.
Walk-up.
Wake-up.
Wade-in.
Take the staircase to the roof:
ride the silver metal special.
Take a last look over
your toenail of a town, all grey and grainy .
In ante-rooms,
close to god.
They walk with
a dancer’s aloofness.
I un-scroll: [Tell Me Something New]
Show five fingers,
spread wide.
Slide with feet first
She says.
No pain.
No gain.
Faces wiped clean.
They were well and I was not.
Slide-in for the show:
No more sad times
No more summer afternoons;
in forests full of flies
and the sound of boys in the night.
If I were free, then I’d leave.
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