Note to my publisher

I don’t want to be that

sad spinster in the attic

parallelograms of sunshine dissecting

her heart’s labour

over which she sips tea and dips biscuit

carelessly and now there are

crumbs all over the page

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Too much jam on my toast

When I see myself in you

I am in love

What is love but this?

And standing back I

see not my eyes in yours

but your eyes through mine

I try to see you now

but lines like bars

stand between

your mind and mine