Like that broad in an apricot bra
hanging over the sill
of a tenement window, the sun
is over me now, its nectar
laughing and falling.
I don’t have a barrel,
not even a goblet,
so I whirl underneath
hoping I drown.
Donal Mahoney

If you have any comments on this poem, Donal Mahoney would be pleased to hear them.

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