the lights have all turned redon holloway roada pale vision of
inertiain cold halogen glowthe last clapham bound trainis
waiting to leavebut the engine-driver's fallenasleep at the
wheelwhen i picked up the phonemy hopes were put on holdthe
outgoing wires were hummingmy heart was growing coldno rattling
of keysno break before the dawni still wait for my
reliefwhat's taking him so long?
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