Jan G. Otterstrom F.

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Letters for tomorrow’s reading
by Irishmen, not strangers
to brothels and bars, rowdy-ish
types, a car was sent around
for them, to punish words, dig
up dead poets, sling about roots
of language, babel our demise
expose the eyes and heart
to what it is to be a mortal man
separated from his essence
in a state, sensual and selfish
hoping that we are strangers there.

© Jan G. Otterstrom F. September 15, 2015