a poem by David McLean


while the world turns

while the world turns shyly
it is night and day
for no real reason,

and the word "soul"
sticks its fingers
down our throats.

worlds are clean
and mean nothing,
need nothing;

especially not us,
like dubious mothers
loving them,

or just saying
words they find
irrelevant, expectant,

pregnant, repugnant,
dirty words or waters,
soulless mothers,

hoping to own us,
and the world turning shyly,
a hopeless whore, a virgin birth--

sheltering world
from sheltered

© David McLean

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