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Soon he will pick up his black leather coat
and step through to winter.
The harbour begins to freeze. Thin as a gleam
the ice –not to be trusted.

She walks around; she thinks about the distance
Love refuses
as if the room cannot have walls; walls, doors;
and nothing changes.

When he passes in his heaped up car,
casual as a neighbour
he waves his fingers and she wonders
if he burned her letters

and if her eyes are tearing from the smoke
from his exhaust
or the ice thickening over everything
like a skin.
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