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He is pinning
tiny rows of coloured heads
– the secretly destroyed butterflies
of his heart.
 
They face an empty bar stool,
or turn their glances to the wind
– locks of hair separating,
twisting across absent-minded brows.
 
And when they send him messages
– that the sea is either too warm, or too cold –
he will type three lines
and maybe add a X or two.


* Helen Pletts is a regular IS&T contributor who now lives in the Czech Republic.