Belongings

By Dominic Connell

When blots appear on back roads,
as though a life’s exploded
or a twister has hawked up its cargo

fully chewed, at first it reads
Tourette’s-like, words that pleaded
to resound seething in one farrago,

sofabeds with tyres, divans,
a fridge face down in bin bags,
two televisions with the guts ripped out,

but repeat viewings divine
subtler lines the eyesore flogs,
namely this is us, tracks through scrub, and shite

we used to covet left blindsighted like
a synapse at a mind’s end.

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