Mortals All Poem by David McLansky

Mortals All



Mortals all,
Blind we fade,
The prophecy
Not clear in the cup,
And after is
Is after all,
Knowing not
Of what we’re made;
Then bourgeois maiden
Of wifely cares
Come weave me in
Your routine days
Clean my brains
As you sweep the stairs
And lull me with your
Bee hive ways;
Do not let my heart
Choke up
Or head ache
In vain puzzlement
Over
What I’ll never know,
Nor
Really
Ever
Need
To know.

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