I am wounded by forced silence
Hanging between our fingers
And nestled within the static
Of a Radio Four documentary
Unremarkable stretch
Of grey-blue blurs
Interspersed with coughing saplings
Struggling in their plaster casts
The miles tick downwards
My chest balloons with relief
Sweaty fingers fumble with the dials
Is there a station to drown out your resentment?
Deep lidded glares, caught in the musty smell eminating from
Under my seat
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