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Scarab

February 25, 2018

onehundredandseventyseven

I saw you across sweat soaked linen.
All the white haired mystics.
And all the washer women.
Could not make it clean.

I saw you across a striding edge.
Where rock is rent by bone.
Water drips in an ancient cistern.
It’s where the rain is grown.

I fell in love with your torn perfection.
You fell for my sleight of hand.
Poetry is a glib infection.
And it’s bourne on arid sands.

You fell in love with all my symptoms.
I fell for your twist of birch.
The snake; a passable tourniquet.
But it only made things worse.

I wore a pair of calfskin boots.
And you wore a butcher’s dress.
We lay together in an issue of blood.
Victims of what we still possess.

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From → Poetry

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