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Dare I Say?

“Dare I say?”

My head has started to throb a little.

Just here, picking at the quick and

Sight lines across the board of the sea have become rather more foggy

Moving, as we once did, sideways and thattaways

I’ve held my thumb up to measure a certain distance,

As artists so often do

I’ve been told.

And aren’t we all, after all, artists?

When we clasp our pens and our pencils and our washing to our chests?

Limp, limping,

Dragging bones across the floor.

Sharp corners furnish tired minds.

Not soft as they once were in childhood.

Cold absence. Left with an ache

And bruises forming themselves in bloating fat –

I’m all washed out now.

Sundays and weekdays and there’s nothing left to talk about

Having been instructed to talk in riddles all day long –

But I seem to have forgotten what was being said.

She turns, neck craned over the table and she seems to be saying,

“What was it you were saying?”

Rose Fox


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