Ravelyre

1 August 2017

A table drops from the fog:
you pick something autumnal.
They’re swimming the tiergarten,
they lean forward pouring accordions.
A rasp. Island heels. The money you waste
was always going to be. Sunny evenings:
an ink smudge. You ask for a bramble
on a round table and everybody’s picturesque,
merely spelling.

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