Washed Up

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She goes to bed
with two pairs of glasses
neatly on her nose.
Next morning she can’t see a thing.
She stares out her hutch door, devoid of happiness.
‘Isn’t it lovely?’ She speaks quickly.
‘I don’t know what.’
She recedes into the gloom.
The poinciana trees, arching and touching
their light liquorice green,
red flowers blaring, pulse on.

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