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On doors and other ways to leave
Poetry

On doors and other ways to leave

The sun is a sinking thing again,

the slow drown

of a recurring dream.

We drink freshly-squeezed horizon,

catch the pulp of day between our teeth

and the tongue is speaking in waves,

is a salt-balm for the words,

ear-shell lamenting echoes

in the ship-wreck silence

of a swallow.

 

Just how many times

can a door be a leaving,

before it forgets how to open.

Love this one Check out this “You’re too..”

Comment
by Pklg

I’m a 38 year old writer from South Wales, UK. I find writing to be the cheapest alternative to therapy - and I get to wear pyjamas.

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