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


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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