How about this boss? ‘Autumn leaves.’?
Or, ‘How will we ever trust the rain
again.’? When Frank magicked
a penny from my ear? Thomsen
cutting in from the right wing?
A no-entry sign on Lewisham Road
outside the Indian? What about 1967?
I’m on fire? No it was the mattress
where the electric fire
had fallen against the bed.
Drugs take your breath away,
the coroner said. What about you?
Are you, reader, a poem?
No, thank god. You only
seem like one, in your close
reading of this.

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