A hundred angels

danced in a transient haze

while a horse played the harpsichord (John).

 

The weather was pleasant,

like conversations with your Mum,

which is more than a man can afford.

 

Did we lie in the liminal,

in crepuscular rays,

till we reconciled the muse.

 

Did the pages shake the conscious,

& the conscience create nightmares,

and the hangover leave us confused?

 

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Published in SpeedPoets, Vol. 13.6, August 2013