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Richard Skinner: a poem


The room was a tangerine. Do you remember?

As long ago as that Thursday evening

when you and I climbed through the bay window soundlessly

and the great bay window suddenly rich.

When exactly did we first have sex?

On the tongue on the eyes on the ears and spawning snow

we fancy it; feel collateral and incompatible

and more of it than we think.

I peel huge pink roses in the palms of one's hands –

a bubbling portion against the fire flames.

World is crazier on the ground floor of Aquinas Hall.

Cromwell Road is more spiteful and gay than Notting Hill.

There is more than glass between Fitzroy Avenue, or?

With sound, spit pips, one supposes world is suddener

than plural and/or being various. Into the room, the drunkenness,

the snow and the roses. Where was it – the "Snow"?

Richard Skinner is a writer working across fiction, life writing, essays, non-fiction and poetry. He has published three novels with Faber & Faber, four books of non-fiction and four books of poetry. His work has been nominated for prizes and is published in eight languages. Richard is Director of the Fiction Programme at Faber Academy. He also runs Vanguard Readings and its publishing arm Vanguard Editions.


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