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I stopped opening doors. Outside
a slow blue car passes 6 evenly spaced
concrete spheres.
There are 4 plastic spheres beneath
the bookshelf.
Her ball is a sphere.
I draw a sphere.
When I finally open the door
there is a mirror.
I see how dark
my eyes are. My hair was dark
once. I touch my cheek and
think of shaving.

That night I close a door.
It half locks, I think of leaving
it like that.
Who could enter?
And if they did I’d make
conversation and speak to them
of spheres – concrete and fluid,
broken and not yet formed.


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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