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At seventy-five I find myself in love.
Not the serene love of an old man
steeped in the wine and wisdom of years,
but one who would kill a dragon for her.
It does not die, this thing.
Tell me it’s an allegory of spiritual love.
Comfort me, but I can’t be comforted.
The snow is melting. The crocuses
are waiting for the moment to come alive
but I have beat them to it.
I rush to her with a body within my body,
reckless as the Tarot fool.
Scoff you will, who have died
month by month your whole lives
and do not know you’re dead.
Scoff, I say, as the moths
flutter from the eyeholes in your skulls.
Copyright 2020 Doug Anderson