It makes no difference, the distance, when we meet
Ten minutes or ten years - it's all the same
Sword-pull in the gut, cut quite in two
And a choking tug of bunting.
Knuckle down to mundane work,
Imitating normal;
No more glittering,
Dove-chest flutter…
Oh my love,
Forget
Me
Yet again, the prompt for this came from the prompt that was given to Paper Planes for their show tonight. I'm prepared to be proved wrong, but I think this is a new poetry form called The Abracadabra. I've combined that with some concrete poetry for good (?) measure.
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