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Liam Wilkinson

Elegy On The Garden Flat

Spiders like you've never eaten,
born in the night, in out of the rain.

That's the inevitable souvenir
of a year spent hunched beneath
new webs, spent stiffening shoulders
at the minute threshold of a tense cavity
- the freshly acquired taste for arachnids.

(A moment's silence
as we remember the day
we flushed the wiped-up trails away.)

We never found out where they came in
or, indeed, where they went out. And if.
You swore you heard crunching in the carpet.


Leaves died, and after them, the trees. And

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