Poetry Annual 1998 O Y S T E R   B O Y   R E V I E W   [ 8 ]
  P O E M   / 1 / 2 / 3 /
Tom Meyer
N I G H T
When it flowers
night fills
with a cruelty
I have done you
whose fruit is sweet.

Love,

let us sit
beneath this tree
at the river's bend.
This, an ocean? No.
An upland meadow.

This rose
is yes.

This remorse,
these missed

opportunities.

This rose is yes,
these forget-me-not.

 
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