Arms folded over my heart, tombstoning into a freezing stream.
Slam cut to waking up from a distressing dream and realising
a horde of crab-legged babies aren't coming for my eyes.
The good hunger that comes from a long walk,
that gets you camping-hungry, when any old shit tastes good.
Rain on windows at night, with a sound like spuds boiling.
Yawning first, and watching it spread round a room
like a rage virus. The boundless optimism that comes
with finishing a new poem: I've cracked it, you think.
This is the one that'll make me live forever.
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