He wasn’t seeing it although
he knew it must be there somewhere,
a Cosa Nostra of cosy contemporaries,
but he wasn’t aware of whom it, they,
whomever, whether or whatever
they actually were.
It is all a product of your imagination
his imagination told him,
just a friendly obsession.
Oh yeah? That didn’t account
for the score of headless poems
left bleeding outside his door!
© I.D. Carswell
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