My pen comes to paper and meets the virgin linen
thoughts like birds swirl and plunge
pulling up and away before this white expanse.
Corridors passed, things glimpsed…
this year is that, some tentative bird,
the year without women.
Freddie gives up grass and then liquor
for a year each time to flex his control
and I, I lay patient before my life’s unfolding
and find myself without them… the women.
gallagher
5 Jan 84
Irvine, CA
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
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