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Bookish I breathe the page A broken wing Folded back neatly To a six inch scar Where tender touch Distils the words To lamp dust and fear Beneath the sheet With the wind and the rain As his once old father The dirt creased lines Veining each page Trace their faint trickles Of nightly palm oil On a crevassed spine Where sun-scolded gilt And feathers splay wide With the conspiracy wink Of once old friends The faithful must Of each new page Reminds him of those days Blacked-out and torchlit With black and white runners Who played their silent Countries of ink as though Armies fought for the right Of his once old heart © David Incoll 2001 |
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Copyright by David Incoll 2001 |