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Click hereCurtains imperfectly drawn: from outside
there's a white line aslant throught the bedroom,
picking out random objects, parts
of furniture, a chairleg, a jar
filled with odd coins, clothes
that lie discarded. Outside
I know spring's emptiness lying across
the silent garden, drenched in moonlight.
Nothing stirs. The cats have gone
to rest. Young leaves printed on the sky
an off-hand filigree - a master's stroke. But
inside the room there's just your faint breath
doubling the distance, the negligent sheets
and this useless gift of time that hangs,
dull, unwielding, on my hapless hands.