Where the dead so gracefully | mimic the living | with echoes in their shoes

Across the station floor | just after rush hour |     | But the emptiness inside us | in which we render solid | the objects of our departure

Upstairs | the Sandersons move |     | creak underfoot | overhead | from underground |     | passengers drawn across the city | reading of Trump and Europe

Cold air |     | the ghost’s | carcase |      | carved into provender | jewellery | even shelter

When the WiFi goes down |     | the boy in the black | blazer comes in |     | the lodger |     | stirs in his room |      | plays desultory fragments of tunes |     | on the piano

Slippers | one | turned over |     | baggy, the leather | space |     | a pouch |     | formed from the long | wear of intimacy | blind | feet |      | and the miles of steps |      | and the hours of standing

Soles | in one room | planed | to glass

Dreaming | rendering the book |     | a gas with arrival |      | a mist |     | and the ankles

connected

unkissed


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

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