4 Readings | 0 Ratings

The Judge

The squeak of my aloneness,

mambo of my forgiveness.


Let every late. night. star

call me King.


Could I say      out loud

that I still


say your name

under my tongue –


when you’re sleeping,



there –

and can’t believe it’s you?


               You’ve come forth

as my own – a moment


not needing

of justification, for once – what an acquittal


of poetry  

Posted 06/10/19
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