He wrote letters about all those oranges and prawns forehead bumping the pavement, the way they fell like old icicles or narcissus bulbs grurting out light fittings.
Fran never could stop craving the paint lid pop relief of asking the right question. On the phone to friends Fran pulls reasoning calf tomatoes out of can tins
Run your keys in cold water wait for the grack of the lock and then in the pub flip beer mats smoke outside like James Dean hold open the door as all the hairpin excuses you ever made
The loss specific Grief hideous and nicotined he is pencil ringed with marking martyrs. It’s the starched things get the guttering golluming, so we’ve stopped changing the sheets