Poem
The house is up for tender and will be sold.
Houses always sell – in the end. Even if it is
for the land. Smoking out or treading down
the haunts takes three days, or even longer.
The octopus is dead
who lived in Wylies Baths
below the circus balustrade
and the chocked sea tiles.
I left anyway, in spirit
dreamed I was living my own life
my mind was on exits, I tried to buy the truth
some nights until I ran out of dark
Searching for his crowd
out of the silence of the cloister,
black robes tousled by the nor’-wester,
first bite of heat caught on the brim
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