Memory in retrograde

I remember:
muffling blankets of rain, shrinking the world
to the inside of the car,
to the memory,
to the cave of bedsheets that was sanctuary,
to New York where I didn’t want you,
and then I didn’t want to without you,
to the night in the field
with champagne and light rain.

Then the world shrinking to only me
and dim flashes of possibility.

24/11/14

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4 thoughts on “Memory in retrograde”

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