They wish to remember it all at once
I hate this poem. I hope it's the only time I recite it.
He was my north, my south, my east, my west
He was a poet that liked to vomit into grand pianos
then digested all my brains
one more strike and he'd be dead
our mountain home so dear
so be it when I grow old, dear tampon,
a spectre searching for souls to keep
a summer sound in a summer without end
in an unknown alphabet.
Compiled by Marianne Hales Harding
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