Sunday, 23 November 2014

1 New Poem

A Grey Area

You wish, picture upon 19th century
cloud atlas, the cross stations of
pure down drawing on December's
facade; unbreaking, still, blinding

Yet I am memory, impured as
mud-slush strewn with bottle glass,
cigarette ashes, tire squeals,
lead paint shimmer-blankets harrowing

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