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) where she pointed out the landmark
there’s darkness. The stars are tired

party-goers who pass you by.
Scared of the pleasure she used to bring you

open and close like an accordian
in a dancehall. She hides

inside parentheses borrowed from symbolic logic
instead of your arms.

If there was a way to choose
she would choose to stay

put in this absence. Yet the dining table is set
for two. The bed is airing for her and her

alone. The sun won’t elope with the moon (

1996–7, Kingsley Street, Auckland


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