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the doctor will see you now, Mr Lazarus

tonight, rain; the white

flap of pages



the winding of the stairs



to sleep of this, the roar

wheels. of sea. so wild

to think it.



to understand.


a place to go/

crave/ to hold the still

beating heart.



Horror. Slept 9 hours. Rib

cracked, head trashed of its

contents/ was I thinking/ to let

my guard down, sink, be filled;

fall beneath you, everything;


& after the rumination of toast w marmalade –

think. Not think but something akin to it,

like you’re setting cushions on the sofa;



& with the house quiet like this,

it can be done. The workers out back

are cool, w their chatter & the clunk

of wood on concrete/ feels

like the world is born, dreams

unwound; slowly lived thru.

3 thoughts to “the doctor will see you now, Mr Lazarus”

  1. Feels like a near-death experience; and the strange recovery where ‘other things’ continue to tick along. We are simply expected, or bound, to find some sort of rhythm again. I’ve been hard on your words… but you’re still my favourite poet.

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