Taking a photograph
leaning
on top of a red post office box
pointing the lens towards and through an ovoid
metal hole facing towards the cathedral with a
fifteenth-century chapel crouched behind me and a
maple descant recorder digging into the
right hand bluff of my midriff swollen from the past days of distorted appetite and
hurry to take a photograph of
a corner of my drowned be-
droom for the estate a
gent to put in his bro
chure, mist
of a commercial kin
d crawl
ed over me as if
my most recent re
in carnation – the burning one –
was taking a photograph of
my red e
ye.

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