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Someone has pickled the butterflies

               Which now line like lead

      My black box belly,

A living dearth.

 
 
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We twist around little sorrys, our

                Cement-mixer minds

      Absorb from Telly

What we’re worth.

 
 
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Dry-ice autopilot turns on, as

                Words fly past windows,

      Staining like jelly

The slow earth.

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Images by Harry Flook

Words by Dan Keir