Poem #18
As I walk under an expansive night sky,
poetry is forming itself in my gut whilst the tree’s shadows shake:
a rousing rumba for midnight.
There is no need for the word apology in this language.
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Poem #18
As I walk under an expansive night sky,
poetry is forming itself in my gut whilst the tree’s shadows shake:
a rousing rumba for midnight.
There is no need for the word apology in this language.