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THE WOMAN
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| The hole starts with anaesthetists, eight, and a clutter of dark. Surgeons close in, terns stitching the waves round a gorging whale. A cold rush up my arm, then the light blooms. I am a room I was years ago and speak through the heater and the crinkle of keys in shot locks. Someone moans over the road and the front door goes, the tones rising and falling like siling showers. A baby's head spills out of a pram. A cloud passes on a bonnet. Cars and brambles eat the backs of houses, choked allotments decompost. I return to a table of knives surrounded by a theatre of faces. I am knotted with urine and an iodine wick. Antony Rowland [Return to Psychopoetica home page] ©The contents of this page are copyright protected.
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