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the savage.

when will you return to your house in Carcassonne?
she asks
whilst tearing the priceless pages
from my antique bible
to roll cigarettes
and smoke the words of God,
the scent of lavender & thyme
from the arid stony fields beyond.

I feel the familiar warm embrace
of my home and station beckoning
and in this vein, I answer -
watching for signs
watching from the corner of your eye
when you think I’m not looking,
- when I’m draining the last drops
of our last glass of red wine

and  I’m gone.