Nora

The poetes maudit, you always loved, regard me by your son, you say letters of women, never known who from, litter the earth’s rim, is that all there is, now they’re gone, pages stuck with yellow bits, maybe it’s a dry run, for our evening bond, 'another baby another bun?’ joking I feel the miss, drink something cool and long, like I’ve never listened, what have you begun, to keep me in the garden, birds chatter, bees hum, St Vincent Millay's song.