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our boys

death and burial

wm

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Meet Me In The Pumphouse, Molly


I feel an aubade coming on. Sestinas resist me
like the plague. I don’t know what it is.

Even the limit lines of the limerick escape me.
But to that I say this,

meet me in the pumphouse, Molly.

a lyric there takes wing, a bawdy and crude verse,
no worse than the first; and in the morning,

all throats will concur round the note:
Molly’s gone for a sailor, and the world is off cant,

our initials scarred into its floor.


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