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Conor O'Callaghan

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by this poet


answers questions vaguely, as if from distance,
cares less for the dribs and drabs of his libido;
gets more droll, lachrymose, implicit with age;

has backed from the room, the turntable moving
and a refill pad lying open at the page
with 'swansong' and 'glockenspiel' written on it;