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Bottle-Bank
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banks"
Black-bile and green glass
Clear and amber scramble past
The gaping scraping open throat
Of the bottle-bank’s sepulchral gloat.
Slide whoosh smash and tinkle
Stale dregs splash and sprinkle
The sweet and sour acrid smell
And sound of a liver’s death-knell.
Raymond Hume
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Raymond Hume
would be pleased to hear
them.