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a poem by David McLean (2 of 2)

under night

under night waits the great extent of forest
and trees for whom sleep is irrelevant
as sex is

it is depressing that to walk the woods
is without trolls hiding their patient presence
and becoming as nothing

because under night i am memory
hidden, i want moss to dance to a fragmentary
truth: there is little else called love

© by David McLean

Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #30 ~ April 2014    previous poem