the remote house of old what’s his name
moon tree moon tree this estuary of mine
walking me home alone from brown’s
fag late and too late to sleep
in the writing shed of dreams
the comely words become undone
to be dusted in a breath’s long drag
feet up the chair tilts the blurred distance
the world bangs a door on a cat night
curled in bed of crumpled paper
a long ‘come on now boyo’ calls longingly
home for you my boy
home!
my bloody fag’s gone out
and the moon’s gone in
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