Was that poem one of courting? Praying?
Fighting? I loved it, prayed it would stay
& when it stood to leave double-spaced it with silence,
went to the bookshelf, bludgeoned it back into its chair
with a cudgel of prose,
sliced it into shreds with its own lines,
the red knives of what was left
of its malevolent intent.

Now it's nowhere to be found. It was
my own fault. I lost control. I think
it was a prayer.

Gerald Fleming
Contents | Mudlark No. 3
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