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Laying Work by Philip Burton

When the sun quits  
your corner, you smooth  
your patterns out 
with edge of hand  
you log into the fire 
embrace the lamp 
demobilise the phone 
and excuse us all 
and you lay down 
the last  
piercing a floral 
sampler of laid-work, ready  
as the day you went – 
     your only will and testament 
I squint through the blunt eye, 
recall you 
     skirmishing with cotton lengths  
parched lips, back bent 
ever composing yourself 
to find  
    the argumentative thread's end 
   the needle is my mother's monument