By | 2 February 2001

cocooned, arthritic bunk
soft as chipboard.
breathing in cruel air.
like a moth, caught
between curtain and
addiction. tossing. how
many lurgies have
starved here? walls too
thick with undercoat
to talk. voices
muzzy. welcoming the
slow syringe of sleep
then waking, upright,
dreams rushing away on
a coastal flat tide,
thirsting, feverish with
truth, but a drowning
man only sucks lines
from tomorrow

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