Little, Late
How many nights has something close
To happiness brushed past
The way a stranger threads a bar
And shoulders by so fast
He knocks you clockwise, dumps your drink,
Yet never checks his pace,
Failing to catch your . . .
. . . . . . .
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Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/digital-books-24/v24/digital edition/Complete Digital Version of -/Able Muse, Print Edition (Number 24), Winter 2017