Alan Patrick Traynor
ROSE, MY ROSE
Oh Rose, you
are made of flesh, that hailed like hailstones
In the
Highlands
where the
ancient fault line
cleaves
To the
newborn lamb
Through
southwest, through the butcher's
field
That bolted
married knee
into the
floor
And she
played the concertina
In forboden
knowing eyes
Like a Miner
whose
held his
breath for forty years
And the four
Lochs
of your
heart
forever
broken
And the
glass table
that I stood
on, it never leaves
I am falling
into a cuboid
falling √ (l² + b² +
h²)
How the sun
melts its broken yellow yoke into the lake
My rose
My flesh
My blood
.
.
by Alan
Patrick Traynor
.
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