The Hospitals are Filling Up

There is the stillness of a box, and an old man scuffs along. Things expand whilst everyone unravels at different speeds. No one is sure if breath will rise or fall anymore, or for how long. Money is the silence of a bird. Some small moments are allowed, like the unfolding of an orchid or the parting of an ocean, but life and death is a loose barrel, and the place for redundant compasses a slag heap The quickstep ; a bolero A sweet tobacco swings in the air and hope lays by the door like a mat Some lights go out. The heavy doors weep The elbows of the landlord lean in without care  By Stuart McPherson


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