Two Wings: She would drift into the kitchen/trailing fragments of a hymn that spoke of God,/a river, the pair of golden wings/that would be hers on Judgement Day/and were you to look at her then/you might well decide your best bet/for a meal would be to eat out: //she was blind and appeared a little lost/in her tile and linoleum kingdom./But she vaguely addressed the garlic,/the onion, the tomato and between her hands/rubbed a sprig of rosemary over...
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Poetry