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Texture Shots 

            She grew to be a thousand feet tall 

                        Just on the way it pulls you back 

            The subtle knowledge that goes with these things 

                        Still won’t stop the looking back 

            Stood here side by side – Hylas and the witch 

                        There’s not a thought of how 

            Why it is we come incomplete, cracked

                        A six am postcard fresco, lighting the wall 

            It’s not that as bodies we can’t unite 

                        Just that time has made it worn 

            Maybe it can change direction, turning circle 

                        Or perhaps nothing was meant in a way 

            Watching out minute by minute 

                        The dirge, relentless tide of the clock 

            Seeking revenge, slow hard rattle at the door 

                        They don’t slow dance around here no more 


            Could we be anywhere at all? 

                        Reaching around to feel forward

            Flying out at you across the night 

                        Taking it out of your play 

            Retold upside down as if she planned 

                        Not wanting to understand 

            You forgive her too easy sometime 

                        Biting the hand that leads you 

            Turning a long way down 

                        Working around how long it has been           

            The fool is hurt 

                        But that dream pulled away 

            Left waving from the porch 

                        Turn angle, glowing at the back of the room 










            It just won’t shake      

                        Clouding up in front of you 


            Then it feeds a fever, runs back to your bones

                        When you drive it back to something else 


            Her hair clipped back, looking out from the rear 

                        Clear behind the eyes, insisting upon itself 


            They begin to file in, one by one 

                        As the din of the enquiries starts                   


            Although there is nothing clear to distinguish 

                        That yesterday is dead 

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