My wardrobes are facsimiles of you

carrying with them the unprinted text,

invisible ink lying about where it was

from what it was: pieces of cotton

and linen that lies there dormant 

in the wooden frame, whispering

what have I done, will you

wear me again, and smile?


It’s that stupid Murakami shirt

The one that murmurs:

‘Don’t let appearances fool you’

mirrored and unreadable, a mirage

like black and white swirls to fall in

and lost. Somewhere, a crumpled shirt

for the optical op-shop bin, creeping around

silent as a fractured thought,

the everything from nothing that whispers

and declines.


When you put it on cloth is 

a chainmail of memories, halting arrows

of her that scream and thrust back

over war zones of muddied masses

to the simple said words, actualised by

innocent amicability, that say over the battlefield:

my dad owns that shirt too,

the one with the moon and Murakami words.

Will Hunt

The author Will Hunt

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