Dripping wet.

The day, hidden within the day, so shy.
So take it out, take it out.
A hand has laid a tiny silver bell
on each of my shoulders
and they’re ringing, very fast, like a fluttering of wings.

Green, vivid, the groove, the furrow, with slick lightning,
which brought us together,
rain on roads, the tarmac
with the blue-white sheen of shining storms.

Poppies like parachute silk, pull the ripcord.

Lips, dripping wet, in the stillness,
just before the word came.

Umbrellas like barnacles, clean the hull.

Beach huts of lemons and pinks, crayon, primary —

primary…

In summer, in Suffolk,
manganese and the roads like veins of ore,
a crystallisation of chlorophyll,

then a faltering, a drip, a leak, like a clock.

Sand on the floor and sand in our shoes.

Look, what we have taken out:

look, what was hidden inside us.

You put your mouth on mine,
I’m breathing with you,

and the bells which are like wings on my shoulders

stop ringing…

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