(For Rosie, and less important things)
The wood pigeons are weighing
Down the branches of the trees
Outside, the light throwing the
Roof tiles into relief and me
Off topic-
Past saving
Face or time or words
But who needs
Face or time, when words
Can make time
Feel different, or faces
Out of things I’ve only heard.
That clock shackles me to minutes
Locks me in its clicking limits
There’s no time for art, you are
Just born and then you start.
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