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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Aug 2014
After dinner
I carried her over the threshold,
her flesh hot,
the bed cold, but it waited for us
patiently.
The inquisitor was born to die, forever
asking questions, why.
We asked again,
the counterpane cut out the night
we saw the light
together.
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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