Tuesday, 19 April 2011

Powder Burn

Out there the nettles grow
in the last wild place, whilst
sitting at a desk like a million others
a man in a cheap suit twiddles his thumbs
waiting for his heart to turn into ash and dust.
Daylight becomes a triple distilled memory
through a monitor’s glare and blends
all his emails into a search warrant,
a death sentence, a Dear John.

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