The image fades across itself, holds
you now in soft hands telling you
don’t something, or that.
You’re gut sure it’s gone
not appearing near the surface,
or an apparition on the rocks.
A forbidden scene, deleted history; too much too
young the weight of the word
makes you scathing,
a moralistic grandstanding you can’t abide.
Get off here, get gone
into my dreams again:
last night, an incorrect order and you,
in my car
by the telephone box
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