Sunday, 13 October 2013


Rust rubbed into the black card-sky.
Bleak streetlights, a child's grubby fingertips
which smudge the silence with sounds soaring by,
joining the dots from thirty second clips.
And so the rhetoric realisation echoes a retrospective cry
but the hand that forms cannot maintain the same grip,
I smudge the anxious smile away from my diminishing dye
and extend the same stroke to my wind-chapped lips.

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