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Belinda Rule

Retired, my father
tells me things.
He saw, far out to sea,
a great Pacific gull,
hefty, hook-beaked,
hound a crow,
slim brushstroke of ink.

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They are stored in a box,
jewelled eggs:

The lover who says I’m sorry, I just
don’t want you anymore.
I woke up and the light
had gone out.

... (read more)