"But ought's as far away from does as is and was leave maybe far behind"
I am in the loft searching for the junction box
The Itch of Glass Fibre
She was a hill wife and grey
Give me an "A!"
We are both too sad to be together
The mirror streaked
This is where we go when love has worn out
When there are mice in the bed
If this is the heart of the country, where is the Liver?
Your box or mine?
The foghorn like a wounded animal, wailing at the night
They pass the wine, careful not to touch
I carry a bomb, on safety. It gives me contentment.
We build for trade, batten down the tables against Christs
The price, the value of things
Strangers imagined, and strange germs, strange smells
Dawn, the sea is black with ships
TV aerials, tin-baths, scrubbing brushes, washing boards
Down by the railway, in the nettles
Two bottles a night
The simple nakedness of the sleeping
Walking cold streets, the string ever longer
"the smell of steaks in passageways"
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