Emily

The poetes maudit, you always loved, keep me in the garden, is this what you call home, beside your son, who goes back to his mother, the one who scatters easy the fruits of men, while daylight fades released, 'I ache for a baby' I moan, what have you begun, to kiss when he’s gone, salt claims an early warning, maybe it’s a dry run, for your evening with me, dicey laughter comes in jolts, birds at dusk settle and thrum, is it by reading Whitman, my waters run