Another Round of Play
I was drawn to you, to be drawn by you,
And quartered in your drafty basement.
Ardor's martyr, I undressed, my pale
Posterior portrayed, in oils, for posterity,
But I, at last, no longer named you first
Among the distaff daubers. May and June,
When they passed by, brought warmth
Your basement hadn't had, and, mothlike,
I developed wings. You watched me from
Your garden. I arose, flew far away.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2024-05-02 at 21:46
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