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--chosen-work--
Forge Island
They are waiting at Forge Island
in a town that was their home
with blankets dogs and cups and caps
for love that does not come
Indigenes and immigrants
hooded haunt the shabby street
silent sit in woodland patches
where the Don and Rother meet
Fragrance from the dark recesses
wafts across us as we pass
we do not see the syringes
left scattered in the grass
They are waiting at Forge Island
on the bridge across the Don
on a cold December evening
as the stars fail one by one