Gentle moss sleeps
Between the stiff grey crags
Outside my door.
Upstairs my ghost creates
stories within the memory flat
I have no key for.
Writers voice complains
in my jar of skull crammed scrap
his sullen war
and who’s to say what notes cannot be
played?
Outside,
a fat and throaty bird is coughing…
Shall all my keys lay dusty with the
weight
of our traditions? Every balding faith?
…in
elbow holding breeze. An empty morning.
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