Poem: ‘The Folding’
Nick Laird, 21 June 2018
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In the midst of this lifelike grief I am stood at the cutlery drawer, and keep on standing here as if I might remember what I came in for, but then I think of something else, and head upstairs only to forget what that was and find myself
eyeing the unmade bed, the bookshelves, the snow still coming down outside and realise then, and lift a stack of printer paper and the safety scissors...