27/09/2013
TORN CLOTHING
On a string of memories
Like washing on a hoist,
Wet, worn, and torn,
Hang pictures, sounds, and gusts of air
Of where I was, and what I did,
And where I should have been,
And what I should or not have done.
There is no soap, no needle and no thread
To clean, to mend the clothing on the hoist.
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