like that could go on
forever—even into the
hideous night
of your letter. Olga,
I’ve told you: don’t talk
when I’m shoving
my Cornish hen into your
pan-fried duck. When my
soullessness
braces its back on a pillar
the ceiling
shakes
down
into ruin I’m ruined I’m
kneeling in ruins. Don’t bend
at the waist to retrieve me, ding-
bat: use your
bollocks
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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