the mark of the wound is only a faint scar
yet the pulse underneath beats with ectopic tenderness
there a things that are missing
even now, she looks back never displaying hindsight
but she sees-
her eyes reflect inside those of the child she bore
to him, he said that endings are like nails and screws
you collect them, let them rust in the joints
till they creak and groan under the expansion of wooden blocks
she - builds things
out of paper, scissors and stones
a new frontage
yet
same old, same old behind
this door
or that one
there will be light





Didn't realise it had been so long!
's.













48 old applause
