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I still own two excellent French paintings.
You show me another woman on your
phone. A double-decker squats beneath my
window. Your forearms’ walnuted muscle
remains strong. Donna left crumbed monkfish and
frisée. Snow epaulettes the mansion block.
We watch the sport until we hear another
roar. Our brûléed grapefruits’ lacquer softens.
Your mouth, frivolous as amaretto,
widens. Pitiless, the drilling overhead.
‘A— ’, that honorific you deplore,
has escaped me. Street lamps tan the sofa
as you rise. One pellucid canvas frames
the river’s pulled mirror in discoloured turf.
The traffic is sparse now.
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