MARY-JANE DUFFY
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In search of time etc
For months now it is impossible: you try
to relax on the highway, play the accordion
without howling. In the dream the lake
always outshines you. It’s so profound,
so foxy. And you know there have been
years – around the corner the playwright
is nearly bald, spots of time are shags
over pages before they settle in your lap,
before they go dead with the weight.
