Dissecting a space, Words by Alan Whitfield


The spaces pull,
Under my skin.
No surface itches,
Drawn to the light.

Inside the whale,
Tentatively,
Contemplating,
Shafts of white.

A nasal breech,
Sawdust,
stale bleach,
Industrial fridge murder.

Christmas rush hush,
long gone.
Blaming lame public,
Purchase pessimism.

And you will stay no more,
No carpet floor.
A black corner.
No longer warm.

 

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