Tin box (Those are pearls that were his eyes) In the rusting tin box the silky silt of memories flows through my fingers. The ghost of a red dress, a dressing-gown, a trench-coat a dark-blue blouse torn at the collar. These two smooth ones – his one and only suit will be dark eyes, white thread through four pinholes for unseeing star-marked pupils, like the pennies that women set on closed eyes under the shrouds. Cathy Fowley
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