by Ken Jones
This slim volume
of lyrical verse
my neighbour’s wife

There she lies, on my desk, appropriated and reified in Perfect Binding, the kind that comes apart all too easily – but coveted nonetheless. With infinite grace in brittle sunshine she hangs out the family washing. Up there with Donne she’d never guess herself possessed by a marbled and slightly foxed old neighbour, lusty once, now bound in buckram and reading out his final years.

the warm sun
   brightens an old carpet
   as it passes


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