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Poppy Cockburn


no winners


Face wet, I step into candlelight,

take out my lenses.


Racehorses blur in the dark rain 

[slow motion, radio on].


They say Negroni Season 

won’t come around again, 


low-stakes love doesn’t burn for long.

Old betting tickets line the floor.


I know you intend to elope 

with my best ideas – a spineless 


highwayman galloping 

into miasmic distance.


You won’t get far 

on a gambling-damaged horse. 


I am closer than you would like,

my face wetter than ever.


Now morning has arrived 

like a debt-collector, 


is yours even slightly moist?

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