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 Fat Days


Everything new was dead.
Poured into the sink.
Weather inverted.
Mouse music. Then there
came the terrible

noon we heard could kill.
Its hours reached up to
us inside this kind
of knowledge like a
carpet. Everyone

loved its fractious hair,
its tawny pressure
under foot. But time
was the master now.
We shaved to meet it.

Ate birds to park its
leisure in the tips
of gladioli.
Cycled to its grand
apiaries and vistas.

The cream days crept by.
Dresses filled like lungs.
This was our terror:
perched inside shadeless
ministries, we grew.