Plan –

the plan
run away until death, along the black road for white hope
last month, life ate me up, her too
age and events have given us new lines, inelastic flesh tissue
calculated, each a census twenty-five left
she’s just left the room, upstairs, asleep with time, and I’m holding a bottle’s neck
rent due in two days and paid from a full diary
now remembering the birdsong, the smell of turf and its see-through smoke
continue looking at the plan

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