Friday, 20 March 2009


Private
The most automatic of doors
Is not sticky this day
A mere forty eight hours after seeing
The bloated baguette...a white
Fragile sponge, rejected
Perhaps only for now
Not such a bad thing
Given some of the bulge
That indulges these doors
In dance
I float
I float...forget
The treasurers of Liverpool
This clammy day is mine
And mine alone

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