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Feb 2015
The clouds grow plump as they eat what is left of the afternoon sky and, while I search for a girl with marrowfat eyes, bid their shadows roll up the sunshine; place it on the shelf until tomorrow, and in that husky flatness, where solids briefly hide their faces, I recognise the garlic which hangs in my kitchen window is no such thing, but a ghost, a dusty deceit, a cosmopolitan boast of no culinary use.
Yet in a different light, a bluer site, I find a girl with naught but a single hair sprouting from her for’ead, to which she attached a flashing light, for fishing in the dead of night, and her cats’ love her all the more for it, dinner and a show, so there I dropped a cloth, a piece of which longed to be a clock, in need of sound and being, and all the while that it pleaded, the coffee maker gasped for its own attention
Paul Sands
Written by
Paul Sands  England
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