Sunday, 8 February 2009


Sycamore. Sick, sick, sycamore.
Surrendering yourself to winter sleaze.
A frosty tongue laps up every last leaf
Licks you bare
Exposed to all yes, but oh! so exposed to one

Over the road s
he'd watch
Shielded with front room double glaze
That was sometimes veiled with muslin

She sometimes wore a bathrobe
Or a Nantucket sweatshirt tucked into size 16 jeans
And a Swatch
Or a necklace
Black pumps
Always dressed with desire

Such icy pleasure.
You sycamore
And she wore envy
And sadness
Year after year after year
Until she
no more

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