February 14, 2010

She must be

an Isodora Duncan
wannabee
with consort
dumb show dancing
among white
wire brushed
weathered
headstones
They are listening
to inner show tunes
partners
skirting brink
of perception
on cemetery hill
above twin ponds
Do they
return that night
to fuck
on felled
grave markers
under
crescent
moon?

by Alan Catlin

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