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As I was reading

the work of another poet

I thought, ‘I could have written that.’

 

But I couldn’t,

it was hers, not mine,

it was she who burgled my house

not I who burgled hers,

it was she who left her prints

on the light switch,

her feet light on the stairs,

her hand on the door

entering the room where

I was quietly reading,

it was her voice whispering in my ear

and her tears in the words she wrote

mingling with mine as I read them.