Poem 170
A poem for Katherine that missed out on being included in To The Roughhouse (Poem 38) or was written afterwards …
… the paradox of having children who you will live on through is that you also give birth to your pallbearers …
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She is my age thrown open ticking in her cot one day to measure me dead as thin and hard as a greyhound she'll pace me she lifts her hands to the mobile's bright fury and these that wind the colour and the movement stiffen in her white light