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Liam Bates




An overhead neighbour’s up late running

a bubble bath or maybe pouring

booze away. Only the wet acoustics
to go on. I couldn’t even

describe their face, have never held

the lift door in the foyer open, crossing paths
coming back from errands or the library.

Lucky I had a plastic bag to hand

today, or this book would be ruined,

pages all fused into rain mulch.
The dust jacket swears it’s a vital guide,

but how’m I meant to focus on my growth

if constantly diverted by a mystery slosh.

The general flow, fine, I’m missing the particulars.

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