Iris Balgaire


Glory

I want to love a poet.
To love their callused palms,
And worn fingers,
And their eyes,
Are timeworn and frigid,
But oh their mind,
What a heavenly place to be.
Within the curve of their lips,
And sharpness of speech,
With breathes so light,
And to watch their lungs grow
And fall
Is a glory in itself

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