Past & Present: Poetry by Stephen Mead


Judgments   All the pans we placed in this leaky place the rainy day of moving in have long since overflowed, rusted, gone green.   Then why do I keep them, these tins that, calloused, benevolent, firm, your palms washed, scooping locks, lukewarm, up, down, back up to soak a beard kiss-thick?   It tickled,…

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