Runcible Spoon

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And between it all -

between the slabs of horror,

the pain of the mornings,

the memory of those corridors -


the sound of your breath in the night

and your warmth on my body,


that bank of daffodils

flaring like sheet lightning,

framed in the headlights,

bordered by grey evening,


my cat lying over my collarbone,

supple, sleeping,

her weight on my bones

the same weight as a newborn,


the cold rain

touching our faces in benediction.