Monday, 10 December 2012


I find myself dissecting maps
my fingers trace the cut-out lines
of roads, of streets, of cul-de-sacs
but I pause before a puddle
of rendered fat and hold that hymnal sheet
for the surgical light that rips
the gelate dream that is Scunthorpe
and I can see you reading the other side
through the oily stain that hides Pontefract
it’s so nice to hear us sing together

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