by grimbeau


Showered the bloated, glabrous, noisome oxen;

descended, short of breath, to a cleaner pit

to heft pots of beans, defrost a halved slab

of gauche bread, fainted in a serviette, came

to in a perfumed tea tree enveloped in tune

to Donne claiming he’d also given the sun

a run for its money through a wrought iron gate

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