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GONE
It’s
ten to one in the pouring street.
The
lamplights swelter on each side.
A
figure stands on naked feet
in
a dark doorway open wide.
Above
the harbour at the turn,
in
polygons and ragged rings
a
few red constellations burn
through
the sky’s black openings.
The
feet remain until the grey
closes
the heart upon its rack.
A
house stays open into day.
The
waited-for does not come back.
Alan
Marshfield
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