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,

in

 

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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