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line no sooner down than taut
     shadow silvering into air
desperate fruit all wriggle
     and twitch snapped off
slapped in a plastic crate
     fading to layers of leaves
knives out guts chucked
     to an instant coven of gulls
heads scarfed whole
     sea a boil of snatch and scream
fillets home in a bucket
     fried in their own oil
all night my head full
     of saltwater skin sun
flesh feather beak bone
     so little between us

Mark Roper

Dedalus Press

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