Saturday, 22 April 2017


His heart
around his head

So that
he couldn't tell
the sound of the seagull
from the sea

Or the smell of freshly
baked baguette
from the charm of the
french woman
who handed
it to him
over the counter

He lived in
iterations -
of himself, of
his story, of his
of the world

And so many times
seagulls had almost
eaten bread
from his
bare hands,
but didn't

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