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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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