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Sylee Gore


 Such Largesse


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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