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Rob Harris

By Her prose a palace built;

Diocletian, marble-carved.

Every verb sinks to the hilt

And settles there trailing silt


And I chip away grammar,

With Us in museum-lull.

Statues, bereft of  glamour,

Heave and burn, burst and stammer


Of ‘Distance’ (Your best defence),

With monologues tapping doubt

Into each surface; nouns tense,

Tasting such salt-permanence.


I dust Your indelibly

Sung radiant cadences

(me still now in minor key):

Ever monumental – She.



Dan Keir

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