Sunday, 23 February 2014



One day I asked
about his back

He was one of the
travellers, long
tough, sinewy, a body

of knotted rope
bunched and stretched
beyond its 14 years

Long raised lines ran
pale along it, bared
in the thin sun

He told me
they were scars that’s all
I pressed, where from

When I was younger
I got the belt

he made a movement
with his arm

A wind caught the
backs of my legs

I didn’t
ask anything else

He covered himself
picked up the ball

We’d smoked together
a few times

I suppose I thought I was
escaping from

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