The secret world, where hormones are capital,
where ideas are hollowed out so that
the tirade in the lounge can find a vacuum,
breathless incantations in the boudoir,
lists upon lists to do,
processes instead of exposition,
tomorrow is and tomorrow will,
what comes next following
what came last,
every corner, every towel drying
in the airing cabinet -
the damp from which is wrung -
a contested space,
when did they stop loving you,
when did you stop loving them?
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