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Poetry By
Laura Lawlor Hewitt
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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