We are mingling now at last,
teetering above
the corpse filled canyons of the past,
revolving on the podiums
of eccentricity
and roaring at the whip.
There is no place for love
but bruised lips have kissed
among the crenellations of resentful hope
and are echoing the circumambient past,
the vengeant will and dream: hope creates a chill, uncertain bridge
between.
© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen
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