No Means No Country Churchyard
Let’s go back to petty tragedies
--you brought them on yourself--
like the time when postgrads came around
to argue English prose and poets
drink after drunk, bottles downed
lost in the winedark literary labyrinth,
one lens must have fallen from your tortoiseshell glasses
When she came out from the bedroom in PJs
“I fucking can’t stand it. Stop reading out loud. I’m trying to sleep.”
And you cocked back, “I’ll just finish this Donne,”
causing the goddess to go berserk
and the shit to hit the crannied wall
“Okay,” you paused, you squinted
through the one extent optic still in frame,
“Okay. I’ll stop.”
But you didn’t.
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