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  • As white as Amah’s hair loose on canvas,

    Lying rakes and brushes as landscape paintings.

    Wardrobes never quite lean against the solid walls,

    I get very cold at night.

    Once we stumbled into mist and landed on the village;

    The Cobbled paths carried us into the bakery.

    We discovered her on the new grounds of the church,

    Bruised by the warmth of our jackets.

    Bird mouths heard through cluttered corridors and hilltops,

    I wish I could store it in a tawny port bottle.

    Bloody nose, poets’ hands framed in time,

    Disguised as a documentary film.

    The heat hits the platform,

    I wave goodbye to a younger self.
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