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Tailpiece
but it enters the room
without knocking
sinks into the wallpaper
fixes you with a yellow eye
at first you fold shirts
into a small bag
change your address
sleep in your clothes
later you stop running
you sleep exhausted
in a nettlepatch of nerves
waiting for the tremble to stop
for the boot to go in
waiting for the gasp of pain
for the flutter of death
but nothing is certain
you move towns
you change jobs
you grow old painfully
Portrait
on a canvas
eight feet by twelve
the colour of bones
the varnish of flesh
before the canvas
an old man who sits
who sits and waits
for the flinch
of a brushstroke
the movement of space
who waits
till the canvas bursts
till the colours
run grey
till the varnish
explodes
and coats him in ashes
who waits
till he himself
is the canvas
till he himself
is a brushstroke
till he himself
is nothing at all