In translation

I read ‘postman’ from your jacket, though I misbelieve your stolen someone, taken as a shield to cover, with stiff sufficiency, your flush faced ambiguity of soul.

And I think denial, sinking in.

Into the volume of your coat, your tortoise head gives my only clue.

I may have got you wrong, but I think you drink

Too much

Too frequently

And with too, too loss of control, the spirit flicks its whip, its spirit sting quickly surpassing

A moment’s feel-good

I think you pull in your tortoise neck with shame

Of a piss-yourself lassitude

Sinking in, into the bulk of your borrowed coat you bring to mind some withered naked cliché

For which I think abhorrence

And contempt as my first thought

Though my second is something closer to compassion

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