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Things are not as we would have them be.

The moon is not a yellow sow

hung from a meat hook


on a drab shed wall : it is a moon.

Ashes do nothing

while we sleep: they are trees.


satellites are not boys circling the lowback chairs

and record heaps of their drunken masters: they are machines.

The broad-hipped distended from stepping in the foam


is not someone going to wet her legs

but no-one, phantom without live taxis.

She thinks,Ships in the night are cruel ships.





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