Postcard from Edinburgh

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I.

As the bus turns left from the East end of Princes Street, a macabre scene bleeds into one’s periphery like an incoming raincloud. The passengers look up out of the blindness of their touch-screens and crane their necks by the window-glass.

It can’t be. He was immortal…

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I

sunlight humming
caressing blood
body corridor he
knows she knows
I know we know
doors speaking a coffee
thinking alive toilet is
necessary showery
laughing keys
culpability
have a pot of tea
therapy laundry

II

Shedding the skin of the day;
Drinking the glitter from the window pane.


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