BOOKENDS; WHEN THE BREATH COMES AFTER THE BREAK

    The lilt of the lavender that lingered for days, long after, by the leaning, before the louvre, the sweet consolation of candy floss cologne that stayed on the pillow, after you had parted. It is sometimes that simple; a scent to sail you back to me as if I never left the garden, […]

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BOOKENDS; SLOW MOVING SORROW

In the supermarket on Saturday in the 14th on the 14th in numb November in Paris, their Paris, our Paris, my Paris, people push grief in comfortless trolleys down shadowed aisles of silence, strangers claiming their spaces in solidarity, in queues of slow-moving sorrow, seeing shadow in places where once there was light, terror in […]

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BOOKENDS; BETTER BOTTLES

  In the shadows not yet departed from former students, since departed, in confined compartments the Polish left to the Irish, red vinegar wine (as vulgar as the vultures who drowned in its deluge) caught itself in corners still not drunk by the blow-ins still bleating about the burnt beef and sodden soil as we […]

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BOOKENDS; TO DARE TO REMEMBER

  Do you remember Paris on occasions when spring sweeps in with its breath of those lost days, in that other life, before we knew London together or what it would be like to part? Do you, do you remember Paris, my little room, our lithe love and the plans we painted onto canvases of […]

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BOOKENDS; MINUTES MOVING

  There are but minutes now, minutes in motion on metros, minutes moving in on me, on my identity, on my mark, on my leaning, on my meaning, meaning I am moveable, like a feast, as he said; A Moveable Feast, meaning I am manageable malleable, maybe unremarkable, mistakable. There are but minutes now, there […]

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