Poetry By
Laura Lawlor Hewitt
Published on: 1/25/2006
Matter of Madness
I find, suddenly, that it does not matter, Whether I am Don Quixote de la Mancha or a sad senile old man grasping at the last straws of life; Her Ladyship Unparalleled Dulcinea de Toboso or some common blowsy whore; Or even a too-old student of dusty classics Hacking away on a train headed toward the North Star Or Kenosha (Whichever). When I hold your hand, I hold something Rarer than giants, more real than windmills. And when you tilt my face to yours, I taste something sweeter Than the red honey dreams of a thousand years of Western literature.
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