The abandoned house I told you about, thrashed;
walls broken
through, windows gone; no longer
the separation of
outside from inside that makes it a house.
Everything’s
strewn around: magazines, books, records;
now scattered jigsaw
pieces of a life from the seventies
except a towel rail
in the kitchen: three dish-clothes
still folded crisp as the
morning newspapers,
beside them a pair of
scissors hanging on a string.
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