My kitchen door’s
not safe, with parcels chucked by, heaped
packaging I imagine might have squeezed new flu
bugs, half known in panic fiction, and read before
midnight’s traps shut
scared, oiled, drained down
maths and data’s graphed predictions.
Do I, can I, love you more for dying way out
back in last September? Out back in the garden and
the bins, soothed
gentle grass cuttings smooth to rot in the sun, so easy
to mock; don’t touch
your face or eyes;
consumption for someone bodily preserved,
or waiting time-wise
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