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He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
That fire, they said, was red as red as redas red as a fox, your lips, a cherry;that fire, they said spread and spread and spread,faster than a cheetah or a nasty rumour;
The light through the blind is a poem,
the way it illuminates air.
And the shadows that fall
on the floor and the wall
are signs that a poem is there.