For Another Writer; Poet’s Choice

Where the apple’s core
is knotted by the worm’s slow indecision
and the hallelujahs still ring
clashing in your ears,

there is where favor slips
her bracelet from her wrist,
and silver clatters
as the choirs sear.

Oh thank You my microscopic cosmos,
in the wasted breath of years
you have washed from sinfully

stirring stirring

wantonness and white sheeted
banished youthful fears
of when I’d meet her, where and waylaid
would our first kiss unsheath and
never more happy than here?

O who is woe is we

and once so made–
unmaking’s just another


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