Roy Møller 


Perimeters work at my innards from the edge –
of sodium shrubs and the lit-up hedge
of the morbid peripheral road.

Perimeters wrap sick halos
above them, around them silent snow’s
undercut by the hum of a huge freezer.

Perimeters stab barbed embroidery
on faded fabric of undone ordinary

while concentric circles of wilderness dance
through the taxi stand stationed beyond the last chance.
Perimeters have crept their way into town.

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