Poem for 20th April


let’s pretend we’re alone in an empty house
which came here in the Gothic season
and that the house was not a facade but had dimensions
and ghostly herds grazing in its passages
behind which fortune lines seemed to ridge
and light cringed from the sentence of elevators
and stairwells, or better still, before these
damned unprofitable lives wreck us
remember this place is full of holes and jump-cuts
and that’s why we’re caught in the hinge
of the world that presses in, a world that has skies
re-visited by planes and if we are wide-eyed
it’s because we are only new to all of this, and it, to us.

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