Sunday, 9 March 2008

Rannoch Moor

Sounds like the name
of some scabby old man
the kind you are convinced
never had a mother
Born into acne scars
and bruises
shades of remembering
planted on his body
If he opens the door
he opens it all the way
hinges forgetting to creak
in the violent surge
Tempted by the idea
that it is still possible
to love something
that means to harm you
you accept the invitation
and are never seen again

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