Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...
The Boy of Ashmore House
Gloaming:
the young man hears
the peacock in the manor garden
he is out to breathe on the night of his twenty-first
birthday
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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