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Trinity

Why can’t I dissolve my body into three
one-third shells of me,
each to be one third alive
and one third here,
when what heart I have is divided thus:
One for my lover,
One for the woman who left me,
One to trawl the streets and bars?

I’d be no happier, and no more complete,
But each third would be sated,
And I would no longer be
distracted and confused
by each clamouring and
scrambling one over another
like children squabbling for my attention,
And I might no longer be
always one third happy
and two thirds dissatisfied,
two thirds itching,
two thirds longing,
in whichever bed I sleep.

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