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That’s not what mother
taught me language for,
complaining; explaining
is a little better, but making
things up is what really counts,
stories and theories and little lies.
2.
The middle of the night
is someone else.
You know her well,
you have heard often enough
her hands smooth down the cloth,
a small sound like far away
birds in autumn leaves,
sometimes you’ve even heard
her breath forming a word
or two in your mouth.
Say it. The dark is waiting.
22 October 2020
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