Commentary
History as a Poem Shaking my Hand
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I sit on my balcony pretending I’m a parcel.
Here’s a postman as a boy cataloguing letters handling fires.
Sometimes we surprise ourselves.
Sometimes we make for ourselves.
I sit on my balcony pretending I’m a parcel.
Here’s a postman as a boy cataloguing letters handling fires.
Sometimes we surprise ourselves.
Sometimes we make for ourselves.