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Years of getting it together, fretted, gone,
skills turned to dust, retrieval system spent;
the fabric of his life beyond repair.
With no there, there, his here and now's a blank,
a game of dice with all the dots rubbed off.
Where every move's a guess, each guess mere chance.
Knees touching chest, Tom's real is now his bed,
the dry, the moist, the crumples hold him close;
the shredding that is day, laid off for night.
Shirley Willsher
159 Knightlow Rd., Harborne,
Birmingham B17 8PY, United Kingdom
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