Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Patrick McCafferty

The Boy of Ashmore House

the young man hears
the peacock in the manor garden

he is out to breathe on the night of his twenty-first

new to me, I see him naked

of it all and irresponsible

this enormous party,
yurts among the pines and fragrances
for guests, he oversees,

blooms carnatia in the gloaming
with us in black wreathed round him

hearing the preening of the feathers
the barrel-chested siren

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