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Coming Home

Maybe the moon is full, dogs
are howling in backyards; crisp
light etched on double glazing - stripped
all bare, all not holding falling
apart that claws
at the warmth fast vanishing
Lost in the surgical glint
of linoleum, the patterned
chintz of a plastic
shower curtain.

A shell of a house - that
was how she wanted it
- remade and better!
A little less optimistic this time perhaps - dove
grey laps like the tide over yesterday's yellow.

How will the lady hang upon the walls, and
that long-untuned piano stand
that lends the halls an air
of - is it vanished grace?


writing

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