in the gap between the tarmac
a pink opium poppy
- tattered - blooms
and she walks with splayed feet
- in pastel clothes - half dyed -
washed up from the toes
past the turned in knees
to the polka-dot double pram'd shoulders
- gurgling lullabies in plodding tune
they say she had to choose a number
- one two three -
and whichever she picked
would not flower
The Blue Book
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