Saturday, March 24, 2018


The man rested his forehed
Against the reclining head
Of the dead rhinoceros,

Endling of its kind,
And placed one palm on a horn,
And I thought, of all the forms

Of love and affection, from
Kiss to forgiveness, this,
This sorrowful tenderness,

Any simple tenderness,
Is what isn’t polluted
By the hungers that infect

The rest. Life forgets itself
Holding the world to its chest.

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