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Well there you are as you said you would be, that life ago as we walked a slim Irish beach leaving footprints and heart pickings, and I remember you saying that you’d never leave unless I came too, but I’d had half a lifetime, and you had so much to lose.  Here I am and your poetry curls a scarf around the coil of autumn.



I’m writing

I’m tired

I could talk.



You outside my window like a crested robin, vibrant in the pale dusk with leaves putrefying on the pavement and my heart an empty cadaver. Shall I go on talking in symbols or just leave you to the warm flesh and pure cotton delight of a young girl’s skirts on your shoulder. I can watch you in that American fall, an Englishman in University halls with the girls falling underfoot and the mother’s crooning at the elegance of your Adam’s apple.  It doesn’t really matter about time because what they’ll never know is that we are two sides of the same stolen moment, coated in platinum for durability.  So I’ll wait for your smoky kisses by the taxi rank at Victoria Station, like the night of our first date, about this time of year, and the inspiration that always comes with our footnotes.





You’re  the light


every door I open.


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