Between turrets, below barrels,
beet stained and slipping on the cobble slick,
maw warped by tonguing of ham hock strands
caught where the gum recedes.
Swamped by the lexicon
of number plates,
oh we're dripping with details,
and supposed to think that
only here emerges
starch from soft leather bounds.
Stapled domino topplers,
handed over,
scrunched into houndstooth pockets,
we suppose.
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