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world-weary, by Odysseus Yong

Though years of separation stand between,
You and I, dear, are not hopeless.
We are not a little broken, no, only a little,
resigned — and too far away.

Distance is factor, you reckon,
One that most certainly will
Render our passions impotent:
Scarlet sails furled in closet,
Curfew imposed on our selves.

We are, dear —
just slaves to schoolboys’ maps.
Silk Way’s withered with tracks of your tears.

’86

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lovers at large, by Odysseus Yong

dear,

how would you know
that planet earth, the home,
is beautiful not for its life
but for your living on it?

what came after the flood,
how life rolled before it,
is as unimportant as the sound of
our future lawnmower’s blade.

your eyelashes call tornadoes,
the tears overflow the penitence,
your tight embraces are gravity per se
what say you to our flying together —
tonight?

over the roofs; and flat hats, we
with eyes bleak as moon’s shades,
will utter remarks claiming to be
what we are utterly not.

*86

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