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SEALED
ROOM
Sealed
room. In a corner
he
squats bare on bare boards, probably
insane
illustrious forgiven
under
a window smeared with sea-light.
You
do not ask questions give answers.
From
his veins you draw ink
to
write on the walls. Your walls.
They
extend into infinite distance.
You
express us, the signs recycled
from
long-ago warmer letters
of
love hope radiant illusion.
The
script wrinkles the paper.
A
rivelled world unravels
as
if ink water blood
spread
a limited thinning stain
on
the wall pattern.
Once
was a window an outside
sea
earth insects colour chrism.
Alan
Marshfield
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