I have 64 stories published in
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I write a poem about the North There's a dead sheep I don't know what it means It's Ireland says my apple My orchard My son The one who fells me with his clarity
I saw him Like Keats saw that woman in Vauxhall Pale as a jet plane Children crying Your father's looking at clouds she said not looking Called away before I could catch his dark dark river eyes Swaying slightly as he walked