Poetry

For the glory of love, friends

For the glory of love, friends
I push away. Stretch every dollar
for time alone, to feel again
the bitterness, and then savour
longing, for as long as I must.

I live to suffer, to endlessly bask
in what was lost. The low hills
are my home, the ancient orchard
my church. I pick the best fruit.
Goats follow me, nibbling my rags.

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