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by Philip Berry Rounds three sides of the locked church Throws your hair forward Into a black burst Fixed at all points Dialling back To the day we met I handle your hand Press outsized knuckles Prominent between skeletal connectors Thinned in sadness Nest of blue sticks Hatching beads on a thread An adolescent web Our reciprocal trade Not two feet from the place I threw my future. Phil Berry is a London based writer and doctor. His fiction can be explored at philberrycreative.wordpress.com |
