Divinity
poets, the evergreens,
their poems, the word
gospels that didn't make
the big book like
birds on overhead wires
accidentally perched
in the sequence of a
Beethoven symphony
but those words divine,
while I figure out grain
on half lit wooden floors
reduced, now, to poems
in pyjamas, oh my life,
delayed, enforcing other
immortalities
Copyright © Clive Culverhouse | Year Posted 2024
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