Shriven

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Take away my bed, the blue sheets.
Roll it up, rattle the slats.
Take my walls, white, foursome.
Take my soup pot; pack it up.
I’ve only got myself standing in my socks.

Take the dark gust of night sky
viewed from my window,
the gap with the Southern Cross
turning over.

I have to inhabit
a part of the world that’s somehow familiar;
I’m a tin mouse with an inset metal key.

Lock the door.
Smile stagily
Say, ‘That’s that.’

Start with a wafer
thin piece of paper
with a hieroglyph
or a mute black stamp
that denotes light hovering.

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