A Poet’s Wile
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A Virgin Vestibule am I
If I wrote a poem I lied
You don’t understand it’s
Quite obscene and if I
Told you what I mean
I would shrink a spinning
Slacker upon the
Rafters of disaster
There is nothing to
Be read
Although spoken
I am unsaid
Would the carriage of my
Mind disparage
My so-called measured
Rhyme you would find
Yourself more bliss
Than my wordy winsome
Tryst.
Photograph by Jenny Downing
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