March, 1941.
The coast is a scribble. Stars are stored in a
wooden box on my shelf. It is more black than
white here. Like algebra but colder.
The hut�s walls are a ghetto of mice. Those I
catch become whiskers of smoke in the firebox.
I attend to the scratching radio.
This is not my dream.
July, 1942.
The short days are long here. Morse code
stutters in my aerial.
Every door of the home
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