There are so many poems in the world

Notices small things,
erasure pills,
Apples gutted in
a silver sink,
Face’s hidden-half
inside the fist.
Metre rising on
the wave
of her hip.
Yellow teeth,
urine snow.
Things chime in
from elsewhere,
step through
lost shoes,
open drawers of empty things,
and lets the body find
what there is,
the thing that
never was.

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