Extract:
from Letters to God

My century is a famished one
The vowels knot in silent white
Like porridge. And I wake
With sharp expressions, mouth
Round as a golf-pit

The streets have our faces
Memorised. The flat-packed mother-wit
Of small-talk in coffee houses
Once hospitals for the dead

And I want to tap the shoulders
Of lapsed apes, and say:
‘Look here at my hand
This is what binds us
Beyond it there is nothing’

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