For Personal Pleasure by Iain Britton

the window closes

chokes             the moon

traps the mind’s topography in glass

 

a red-back spider is startled /

my morning is one of subterfuge
as i slip in & out of who you want me to be

 

i bottle parts of myself for personal pleasure

i number them

 

exhibit only so much /

 

occasionally / you take gifts of mine
to the edge of the map

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