joy to the Strollers

who watch Morning straddle the hills

bow-legged from the burden of revelation,

or catch the wrack of Mockingbirds

tussling over a Corn of truth;

even the streaks of Condensation

resemble Stretch Marks as if

a confined prophet were exhaling Breath.

 

thrill to the Poets

who amble without Notebook or Pen

leaving those wives with gendarme eyes,

and let memory sleep about with Day’s trinkets

shameless Animal trysts;

especially the Jeweled

elation of entering into

a woman wearing Nothing.

 

Joseph Byron Bennett

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