Darling, save the last dance for me
Poem by Steve Day
Not a neat map
with a route-proofreading of sorrows.
We find ourselves inherently happy.
Your twitch to my itch,
my blistered kissed lips and your
sculptured jaw-line moving prime
numbers into play. We approach
a kinda Dhammapada
climbed neither high nor higher.
To that far place where no sun shines,
signs of life sighted in springing snowdrops
wherever they care to grow within
a view of sapling trees.
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