Are there any more days – Blank neighbourhood, any real human beings living here …

Blank neighbourhood, any real human beings living here
Twenty-eight hours for days, a wonder about a something happening, filling days with plans, no one else in them
Doors rusting shut, behind, boiling water cups dissolving separation anxiety
Purpose, perfection, point, and order in tomorrow, always wanting past days and young limbs
Arranging, solving, drifting on and through days, thinking inside them – ‘it can be good to have had, and have had enough’
Maybe begin with a belief in white tunnels, an Accessory to leave just now
Can’t ask her to do that

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