Love divulged is barely love at all – John Burnside
At 54.1 degrees north I found the house
as if it had been looking for me,
as if I’d been found out.
There was a parked car adrift,
a glaring anachronism
but their deliverer.
When truants from the city go far
into such a place of hard living
they enter indirection and solitude
and I share this with them,
what I want to say moving
in the slipstream away, undetected.
This estranged house has dreamed them
one by one, known and unknown,
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