Mason Gates


this must

be relevant

or you are not

in that room

planning to marry:

first thing

in the morning dogs

who protect infants

the light


in there is

gold settling and

dust to be breathed


over beds and

their tables

a dropped telephone

its warble

fuckery but

soft as rocks

in your mouth


you were

a ghost

for so long

it is difficult

to understand

that now

you are



a phrase

and washed

your legs

with it,

the whorl



why is it


a thing

who does

not matter

still dies?

let me

keep you

a while


you with

an eye for

snap, in


lugging a droll

smoke trail.

Mason Gates is a poet living in Porto.

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