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September 19, 2015


Green Door


haunted by Mondrian, South Street Arts Centre.


With the steady glide

of an ophthalmic surgeon


a retina


I trace two perfect

set squares

with a needle point,

across the forehead of my student.


To form a perfect Swastika

as he faultlessly completes

the missing

punctuation on his worksheet.


Thirty hours later, grey rinse and corduroy,

lurks shark, beyond the tea strainer bulb

of the microphone

and I quake and I judder


      my untethered twin-tub


across a poem

and I crumple,


and I just can’t think of that Hen Harrier

drifting dawn mist battleships

or the twist tail of a Red Kite

calmly clocking the Chilterns.


I think of that fence,





and I’m stuck in the air-lock

fighting myself

for the keys jangling

my empty pockets.


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