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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