When I wake they’re out there,
the others. They think they’re
going places, but I know better,
or they’re wishing they were
thinking of going places
or else they arrive displaced
and hang round the shops,
texting their kids, buying
a future in metallic blues.
My defences aren’t strong
since the consultation, and
this won’t blow over. The
Moonlight Sonata’s no help
to insomniacs. Same with puzzles.
Only Thomas Hardy helps,
and he’s dead. This is a forecast.
Whenever Bathsheba takes out her mirror
a bull chokes. I love her
as long as the fences stand up
to the low pressure.
I might go into town later,
but know I won’t. The rain
is throwing its offspring into the
cellar. I daren’t look down
either, or ‘else will wither’.
Why is there never a real
ghost in the coal hole? Just
the fake one, with its upheld
certificates. Discouraged,
the genuine article drifts away
from its ‘behind: in-front theory’.
Heart beats weakly with the shells.
The war goes on and on ending.

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