Poetry

Patrick McCauley

A Bunch of Flowers for Saint Valentine’s Day   Sweet breath of Heaven. You have written again in Italian the beloved has no gender role nor race nor age nor woolly hole.   it was a rider riding by who sat with me one wet july and wept with me in the deepest dark and lay with me through the florid night.   Though I will agree I saw your face last night upon the curtain lace. The billabong was dry as dust the moon was swelled with fleshy lust.   Beloved begone, you murder me but stay tonight a…

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