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a l i c e   4

t o m   w r i g h t

skin the colour of clay

I am bone
You my flesh

thy lopsided spin

with me in the mud
in the seashell mirrors embedded

i understand the shape
when i am
your skin,

you texture my forehead.
and your finger pulses visibly.


There is no poetry that
can be isolated

from the moons of your eyes,
the sun
as the railway does
the stars.



© copyright 2004, tom wright, all rights reserved


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