Poem 545
6pm again, dying of the day and closing down of possibilities …
( I like an hour like a derelict ship … )
Letter Home
When was I born what hour I mean you never told me was it night midnight perhaps or six in the evening an hour like a derelict ship the food still hot ship's log missing that girl you wanted to know about runs a shop up north just like she said she would stopped biting her nails closes up tight at six she comes to see me now and again