Purse

eleven thirty in the cold night, vapour
from the turkish kettle with minute motifs

carved in your memory, the images
of the evening fluctuate like a waveform

settling slowly into a sleepy silence, a purse
opens and brings out a society of wrappers

talking about your recent and forgotten travels
they each open into stories, but end up as junk

one soiled receipt though, you hold for slightly longer

 

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