not always                      the words
have any meaning.they
fill the slots as long
as all the numbers
are not counted

they just                          complete
the hours / the days
go on
& die.they have
their mobile connections

the touch of a voice

i watch your screened
conversation                    ticking.your

simple
pictures

hanging
now

this glass is made of ice
a cold
intonation.cut
deep i do not bleed

© Reuben Woolley

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