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pool of fear,
the fright of interrogation,
guilt,
i hear.
from where comes the mourning,
late afternoon,
and evening…
goes where it leads me, a kind of conversation between me and the work, but drawing on what is in mind.

“kind of a diary?”
things come awry and we leave it so
the random nature of things
faintly corrupted
saw you fallen
&
photographed you



yet could not save you
nor
any of them

you are a metaphor
comes a wider space, with mistakes and misgivings.
nothing in this world is perfect. it is raining today.
save old card for drawing on and bending about all messy

charcoal gets everywhere and causes coughing
so have been neater recently and careful
fortunate to live in this place where no bombs will take us.
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