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Scorn MAG
The daisies and daffodils sighing and rotting
on my doorstep were once as lovely as kisses;
lovely as you, generous you.
But this swelling, bleeding secret of ours has
torn its way up my throat to my fidgeting tongue.
Now the telephone is mute and untrembling
with your silence and yet I wait,
my hand pressed against its plastic shell.
As the clock-hands spin I close my eyes
and I am on a beach, a sweet, toasted slab of earth,
waiting for the tide to wash ashore
what's left of this love.
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