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SLEEPING ROUGH
The moments of a life
irrelevant to new ownership
are probably deleted:
you in cut-off denims
by the ochre church
against a backdrop of sea,
a stone tower snapped
in silhouette from a distance
down the river at dusk;
three minstrels crooning
on a wooden stage.
It’s like none of this happened
and you tell me loss
is the price of negligence
and sleeping rough.
I think I understand
then crawl under sheets
defeated by my own stupidity.
Hoping you’ll always be there,
much wiser than me.
One day the last face I see.
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