I taste salt
Fife
You see the little things, the quietly beautiful that I miss
Death may or may not be permanent
I am bleeding slightly; from various places
The simple things, like you reaching for me
We will hurry home
It is not here that your mother meets your father
The wind rises; you laugh
We will kiss the earth
ICE
The buzz of a needle, the tatooist's hand
Once this was sea. Sea-birds still nest here, dark with disappointment.
An old woman who smells a little
Oyster-Catcher, night road
Duke of Earl
Various ice-creams, more than one kind of cheese
FIGS
The flowers echoing the dead church-bells
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