Pines
it’s a matter of
where your thumb was
when Thumbelina walked
into your toll-point
this voice
is as abrasive
as children in the park
where larks perch
in cold not sheltered
by old prostitutes
in gold with cats
and salad on mayonnaise
these winter suns
are prophylactic
‘Aurora’
on photographs
of my father and mother
long dead
like empty bottles
where cockroaches have tread
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