The depths of what won’t edit


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Vastly under-worked but honestly, I think we’ve reached the end of our short road. Throwing it here rather than throwing it out. Arguably dubious move.

Rain comes at seven -

ten past, you want to walk outside.

Dinner, you pronounce,

can sit in the yellow light of the humming fridge:

in the yellow light of evening, we go out

and look at things. I’m starving,

and if this helps, you keep it to yourself.


In the bushes nothing moves. The wind

whips up the rubbish, circles, biting grit,

then lapses. Gulls shriek at nothing, trees

wrecked by too much summer, slump,

and I agree we’ll sleep in different rooms,

and dinner spoils. Rain stops at eight:

at nine I go to bed and dream of heat

that steams the wet off pavements,

dries the air.




The sun is out, the people out in droves. All sudden arms, all walking stopped on grassy verges, legs outstretched.

Edinburgh’s blinding flash of summer-white, stark black tattoos. There are unexpected head-stands to walk past, bright blue smoke to breathe in, the hot smell of meat charring.

Frisbees, plastic butterflies new to the curve of air currents.

Deep shadows for the cultivation of goosebumps.

Most clouds that come, blow on. Those that bring rain have warmed it tepid. It hisses on the sausages it hits.

On the bus, skin sticks to the seats.

The windows are opened: breeze. The windows are closed: the capturing of our breath.



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