In memoriam
Your poem at midnight.
And here I tread softly, dare intrude;
but it hurt,
your poem hurt me.
How dare I say that! (I ask myself),
for the hurt is yours.
The words undressed you,
driven to your knees by the cold stone wait.
Midnight stole my words off yours.
Look, I have no right to these tears;
here, take them
for your child’s limp flowers,
the lilly’s dew.
The sun will be up soon.
Yes?
Come and sit quietly with me,
and let me put my arm around you.
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