“… greying a life …”

It’s not being black and white to

GREY a life: some of the finest sketches 

have been made of pencil finely

shorn, and drawn with glorying perspicacity.

And the GREY of accuracy deserves its place;

and the colour of ambiguity – gently torn away, 

like pincers on punishable 

flesh –

also deserves its square metres on this rock 

we live and hurt, and

damage and love.

And there is so much we can touch without that

love: just its memory, even when fake 

and taken like cheap photo snapped 

and wrapt in newspapers lost to our cost, and 

maybe about our coats, still (and then: 

who’s to know?  

We never 

will, for sure).

And so to deep pockets so long unvisited, 

which like

lofts and attics secretly left 

tend to unburden, bereft of all sensitive meaning, 

the demise of grand details – 

such secrets as these on 

sudden saddened 

discovery: the occasion as a rule

the deaths of those peeps 

we cheekily call

loved ones … I mean those ones who ruled over 

us small … but what does that mean, dear you, 

you and you?

What can “loved ones” 

really mean …

… after this?


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