How much? I ask,
As I depart St Bees,
And walk into the wind.
Soon I will lose my feet to fever,
As I struggle to relieve her,
From the illusion she sinned.
Once a child,
Now a scar,
Stubborn and dimmed.
How much?
Or is it all spun dry,
Ponds of salt,
Dying under the sun.
Gathered from frost,
Repeatedly lost,
Indifferently rewon.
How much? 
Of me?
Of him?
Of her?
Of we?
Paths desecrated,
Vows undone.
Faces erase faces.
Kisses become easy.
And everything is shelled,
On this northern run.


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