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Poetry

Shuddering Eyes

Thanks for the help. She sighs,
I'm tired; it's late. A ride?
I must get back, you realize
I've still got that, my pride.

Last Saturday: dinner and wine,
the fire, we cuddled, you moan.
Our hands searched for a sign.
Yours sure, my treasure: your gnome.

I must get back, you realize
she's home laughing from shore.
Be prudent, discreet and wise.
We'll soon, I promise, have more.

Call me next week! She cries,
love you: it's aching my bones.
I'm flesh and blood. My eyes
betrothed your Quaker groans.

Podcast: Shudddering Eyes

E.G. Wiens

 
   

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