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More Than a Temporary Traveller

You worry that you are old
in your blind little spot of dark.
You worry that
no one would have you
even though you are already had.
You lie, eyes open to the night
as though you were ill,
an illness, a thing.
This will be it, you think.
You will spend nights awake,
ears buzzing into the silence,
and other nights asleep without memory,
and then there will be no nights.
There is no pattern to navigate,
no migration to trace the why and how.
You will be older still,
and older.
To be younger and more wanted
would only mean more would have you,
and even then,
when your thighs were tight
and days and nights were long affairs,
you worried that you were old
in your blind little spot of dark.
You knew the truth,
that no one would have you, not once,
that no one would touch you ever, not truly,
not in a way that defied the body,
denied the body,
dove beyond it to prove
you were, indeed,
more than a temporary traveller.

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Days With No Hope In Them

the mailman came during my bath

There are days with no hope in them.
The sun sits beyond the treeshade
beyond the window,
the cars hum beyond the grass
beyond the outer wall,
there are feet somewhere scrambling
through leaves and gravel,
but you are far away.

I spiral through the hall,
along the stairs.
I sit at the foot of the bed
and pull on socks,
as though I might go somewhere.
I feed the cats bits of cheese
and run a bath
so I can hear the water
whistle far through pipes
down the line.

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Time In a Vacuum

my bed

I was a child in the morning
with spring air shifting
in waves through windows
over the bed,
across the sheets,
and between toes which I spread
to see the sun red
through the webbing between them.
An ironed pillowcase my mother's touch,
the pillow loud against my ear,
the salad scent of mown grass
sprang from a neighbour's lawn
to tell me to eat breakfast,
and that moment became a vacuum tube,
bottled itself into a pocket of my brain,
where we find ourselves now,
looking.

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Out In the Black

That night,
I stared up at a bright night sky,
country bright without urban competition,
and whistled quiet and low,
waited on the moon
to come down into my throat
and refine that wasted voice,
waited on hopeless wonder,
hopeful,
heart thump-thumping out in the black,
and hoped there were wolves
in the dark line of trees
watching my neck,
white against the wood.

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Limb

I will always choose this road,
this that runs with yours.
No idealistic resolution,
no lie of present comfort,
this is no promise.
What is becomes.
Not always easy or kind,
it is what must be,
and I gladly follow,

your roving,
sometimes phantom,
limb.
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