Shorn
Emerging we’re a conspicuous lot,
ducking down furtive streets, or stood
where streetlamps aren’t, clutching at what
they’ve left us. There’s no earthly good
complaining it’s not what we meant,
not now. It’s not as if they could
undo what’s done. Instead, spent
as Samson was, we watch the rest,
those who aren’t us, swan off, intent
on glorious reflections. Crest-
fallen, ritually brought
to public censure, we confess
our misdemeanours with a sort
of leper’s bell: too short! too short!
Page(s) 40
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