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Three is a lonely number. We are three in a boat rowing he and she
and me.
Three is a lonely number.
Parked up handbrake on our lives
held
pregnant in the dank banks of buttery mud we float black slop on.
Three is a lonely number. He takes the oars and pulls the drift forward to
the weir
where the roll of water spins a shell of gloss
that keeps us there till we turn
Back forward toward the pier where our car sits to carry us back to land.
November 26, 2014