Temples and palaces | local Tescos | instant | mystery of morning snow | all your grades | and the tiny | corners of love you found | tomorrow | today | the things you called yourself | collected and lost, then | collected again | then lost | arrangements you made | glass | promises not yet | left to shatter | songs of beluga whales | and the digital glitter of the | ocean | sculpted and planed before you | the blind | touch | the acute | vision | moments of epiphany and of ennui | the last words | the long haul | all | melting: edge of sleep

Shipwreck on velvet rocks | a whole mission | cargo of copper, bananas, scooters | scatter to a cry of | lonesome-sounding | gulls from | 45 years ago | balm of | your mother’s voice poured | down through a dream | across your skin, riotous with psoriasis | the || personal things || Keats’ nightingale and | tetrahedrons | the facts, the | unassailable truth | the words of God | and of | gods | bobbing and | rocking now | caught by | unseen currents | eddied and cast | joining the wild | herds of jellyfish on their long journeys | Achilles’ | heel in the head | a | blank | spot | to pour a coffee or a sea | rates of exchange | ominous | presence of Captain Black, a Mysteron || can you | hold off what is | so much inside you? | and once you’ve gone | will you ever be called back | drowsy to a new shore still | born glistening and freshly wrought?

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