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by sarah o'grady

The day is released.

City bridges murmurate

with city suits

swooping from Bank

to the bridge, transpontine.

Evening gilds the river,

seams solitary lives inside-out,

selvedge frays with the rub.

Humans filament loose

at Waterloo.

I recall you now at stations,

your poems tailored,

sketched out on the edge

of fashion,

our flimsy pattern snagged

on a split nib.

You kept a coat then

from your past,

folded on the spare cafe chair.

I waiting for my last train,

you always expecting

someone else.


Image by Bree Anne
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