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In his poem, Kevin sketches his old city so well -
it's almost like running your fingers over a lover
who's now left, but, once, kept you wrapped warm
under sheets in the cold. In his poem he describes
'the restless sunburnt city', and the bars where
'men in suits are balancing on first-name terms with
other men who have already shrunk the world to views
they can handle and carry it neatly folded under
their arms' - so good how poems such as this
can recreate old memories long after an event
has passed, the images compressed into the mind,
like wrinkles lining the skin of your face -
much, it seems, like an epiphany arriving one wintry
morning and arresting the movement of thought.
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