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Fall

(i)
The house is empty,
the rush of oxygen has made me gasp,
a newborn.
The rooms are hissing silent,
the way the needle lifts off vinyl.

(ii)
Dirty windows,
the bonfire dry and ready.
All summer these roses whored themselves,
then fell apart,
their petals limp and splayed.

(iii)
You have left
tea splashes, dramatic as blood,
on the floor.
Three. A damp ellipsis,
telling me this sentence isn't over.

September 2001

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