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Writer's picturexwaxinglyricalx

Sheets

Updated: Oct 6, 2020

Sheets

Twisting in the wind,

a contorted sheet clinging

to a hanging line,

wrung out and skin-boned

I echo the moments

around corners,

losing some,

catching others,

in a blended fuck-up

of cricket and brandy.

Mellowed in the evensong

of analogue play imaginings,

we envelop each other

in deepened-breath warmth;

toys made from hose and funnels

and rattling tins; music summoned

from the bareness of things

like divined water.

So easy, tricksy, to sound out the depths

and be found wanting more

of that which cannot be defined,

other than by a keening, yearning

connection to the rightness of things

in the given,

Where the sheet, concordant with breeze,

dries itself, stilling

to a straightness, that whilst

not wrinkle-free,

has a summoning warmth,

a snapless dryness

that suggests the bed

will be snug,

once it's fitted.




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