Tuesday, 6 October 2015


I love spending my weekends digging through
bookshops for those little pieces of paper
in poetry books that float out and shout 'eratum.' 
A printing error correction.
An apology for a genetic mutation of poetry.
The world still makes sense with errors, you know.
I like to shove them in my pockets and hurry
them home - so they can have the room to breathe.


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