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so lonesome the sound

of someone else’s fireworks

on the eve of a blank new year.

momentary constellations

of colour and light

glimpsed through a crack

in the living room curtains

you’ve drawn against

the world’s cold draft.

 

you exist on the edges

like a fox foraging

in the city night.

an interloper’s sense

of unbelonging owns you,

points its finger,

dials a number,

makes a report.

 

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