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This poem is taken from PN Review 86, Volume 18 Number 6, July - August 1992.

Poems Gerard Woodward


The match has shown
A breakfast in this room.
The hours are wrong.

Before, it was just Earl Grey
Coming out of the dark,
But now it is confirmed,

A breakfast in the middle
Of the night. Its eggs
Give shadows big

As men.
Cereals quake in their milk.
Crumpled bacon

Cools on porcelain.
I had my suspicions, hearing
The little percussion

Of it being set.

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