An annuated Irishman with a spotty publication history trying to write one decent poem every couple of days for the rest of his miserable God-bedeviled life in the obviously contradictory hope that he will thereby find salvation.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Maura
When I realized
we would never make love again
it was like looking
at all the broken windows in New York.
No comments:
Post a Comment