Mike Bell/ January 16, 2022/ www.mikebellpoems.com/ 0 comments

Black mathematical tiles
have me thinking of riled

calculations along Lewes
High Street [those beer &

shot nights of pub crawls]
of fug – of diesel clouds &

tart breaths over-shared –
Any unpolished gloss will

appear unloved [veneers
now untouched’ll dull] –

histories of alignments &
affixed to an uneven face –

restated a thousand-plus
times [by hands & eyes at

vertical bodies] – Under it
a structure will fall apart –

what is left is a dishonest
array – an ailing visage in

a gone mirror – that gloss
rubs off under every error

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