“Black Dog Whelk Feeds on a Barnacle“: a poem by John Wedgwood Clarke
Lost keys run riot between desk and pocket leave me for dead at the door. I won’t be sweet: there’s a hairline crack in this sun-baked…
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Lost keys run riot between desk and pocket leave me for dead at the door. I won’t be sweet: there’s a hairline crack in this sun-baked…
By John Wedgwood Clarke