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Around the headland, off into the night,

are more of them,

the words we send out to be mangled and muffled,

sheltering from the sea’s urged-on breeze

in hollows cut into stone.


Strung lights dance along the pier

like we didn’t dance.

The limping woman dances to her taxi,

her husband whirls a crutch high,

they hobble home together.


And the clinking ice

mingles with harsh whisky,

drained down,

disappearing and disappearing.


That beast around the bay doesn’t know its name,

sleeps while the world tramples over it,

dances over it, mopes over it.


About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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