Not that I care who’s sleeping with whom
now she’s had her womb
removed, now it lies in its own glar
like the last beetroot in the pickle-jar.


I would have it, were I bold,
without relish, my own lightly-broiled
heart on the side.


I would be happy in the knowledge
that as I laboured up the no-through-road
towards your cottage
you ran to meet me. Your long white shift,
its spray of honesty and thrift.


Ours would be a worldly wisdom, heavensent;
the wisdom before the event.

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