I have not written poetry,

ever. The morning sky fasts,

no space above to dwell.

 

Which country will my

reckless desires next turn

toward? There are no

 

reservists in the dockyards,

I volunteer to trawl again.

Where there is space to sit,

 

you will find someone to sit

with. If you find yourself willing

the sun to rise, stick to your

 

passions, and remain a man

swiping at memories, or hoovering

up the final crumbs of night.

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