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Static home and slate canals
Fire station, remote prisons
Thorns and brush and ice and slush
All wires and creeper, twisted tarmac dreamers
And tonight we watch the last in the season
Come to pass then disappear
A finale written out on till receipts
You’ll only get as high as crack in chimneys
As low as low hanging planes,
Beneath a rented sky in a rented loft
A folding bed, a creeking loss
The distant exposed wires of a telephone box
An automatic door that don’t open anymore
Two lovers in the aisles, two herons on the canal side
“And another day will be the past,
A valley cropped by fat neglected chance
That we insensately forbore to fleece
On this we blame our last
Threadbare perspectives, seasonal decrease”*
But what if all we did was dance
through the valley of our circumstance,
we ended up around here for now
with pigeon feathers on our crowns,
Bound to what we share, although we never fit
you can’t see hell while you’re building it
*From Triple Time by Philip Larkin
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