A hair grip
precious as a Giacometti.
The plum tree
in its Laura Ashley frock.
Stretch-marks
in watered silk.
This kir:
your Rothko aura,
radiant
in the toilet bowl.
The three-quarters moon,
her lost expression
like your look away,
your open lips impelled.
[Further reading: Gore Vidal: American prophet]
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This article appears in the 08 Oct 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The truth about small boats