I’d call them souvenirs. It’s not hoarding.
Not when you’ve the set. The full set (I think).
Sellotape – bruised with age, holds it together.
They’re here. Inside. Unblemished. Clinging on
to lives that didn’t stick. Vague markers
lining all roads
to now. Temporary
paper affairs. Sliding, writhing
in polythene holds. Shot against bland backdrops
in colour – not so modern now. Original sins
shading the soul, slowly
a little darker. A day here. Weeks there. Sometimes
months. Eyes fixed
beyond the lens in seasons
already revolving doors, as nothing changed
but everything, in fragile silent calm.
Patrick Slevin lives in Stockport and has been writing poems for many years. His work has appeared in The Interpreter’s House, The Manchester Review, Degenerate Literature and the Bangor Literary Review. He was highly commended in the Westport Arts Prize 2017 as well as the Gregory O’Donoghue and is a member of Manchester Irish Writers.