with twitching legs
being called to sunshine and tulips
when there is only night-time
to be found
no sleep, the time set aside for
late night musings and
frantic pen scribbles
scratching the hours into cardboard
philosophy talks and
whiskey sips and promises
to save our livers tomorrow,
tomorrow
photographs are strung on fishing wire
criss-crossing over horizon lines
and in each picture the likeness of a ghost
two eyes, two hands
one open mouth frozen in timely utterances
of absolute fact
the windows are fogged
the sun is coming up
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