This poem is taken from Stand 218, 16(2) May - June 2018.
Poem
The Poet Does Not Marry
Lest he forgets the way light laps an empty bed
or sets itself aslant a table set for breakfast
in the first few months of lust.
Or, at the throbbing thorax of a wasp or ladybird’s crisp husk
...
Lest he forgets the way light laps an empty bed
or sets itself aslant a table set for breakfast
in the first few months of lust.
Or, at the throbbing thorax of a wasp or ladybird’s crisp husk
...
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