The coots

Coots patrol the lagoon –
baptise themselves beneath its wrinkled
cellophane. Marks on their foreheads

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like it’s a sign of faith
that each puncturing will push hunger
ever deeper down. Morning now,

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and the overnight rain
that conspired with worry and tiredness
to make sleeping a dream at best

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is smeared above houses
in stretches of expired lavender,
or pooled below the black and white

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of coots at their worship,
bowing graciously before the sun
as though water were their temple.