Poets

sadness ripe and crumbling mirrors her in the market salesman's trays delicate is she who loves apples he sees that he sees her stubbornly

my love nobody knows how in earlier lives we passed each other by in the street or just missed the bus in which one of us sat or in which you were my sister my mother

he galloped out of his final dream like a rusty knight on a white-washed horse with a rigid dick and tidings for his wife of the joy he'd found in fantasies of her