in the airless, guileless, black cat bunker night
I find myself lying, refracting the past
though, from this distance, through the splintered prism of
my memory,
can I do anything else
(breathe,
be still,
breathe)
so I indulge a
fibrillated, perverse unbellishment of my youth
that guns, like spring rain off a tin roof, through my
graphite fingers
were my cock as alert as my mind in these wasting hours
these words could not be with you now
the uncomfortably rounded ageing feline, supine, at my side
would instead re-discover the byzantine curve in her spine
and a muse would be lost, drowned in a torrent of autumnal
localised weather
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