Y E T A N O T H E R F A N
It's a great shame
Madame Mallarme
that to sad us your
hands seem swans
on tortoises drifting
elegant in the sea
While birds whine
at the sun we lay
our aching eyes in
your lap and an iron
balustrade holds
firm round our heart
Gently white planes
rove the horizon
as your wings beat
to earth and trample
our freckles into
coral and grass
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F R A N K O' H A R A
