How is it that a sheet — cotton, kingsize, pegged wide
across the line and billowing, the wind punching it
so it lifts and hollows — should express
such complete desolation? The sound
of the fabric buckling to the wind’s
blows; the sight of it as it twists
and strains against the pegs; the virtuous
clean smell of the sheet,
rinsed of our friendly fragrant fug?


by Elizabeth Cook

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