Poetry Round-up – June 2016

Orlando

Forty-nine
or fifty
are only numbers
without volition
divided, subtracted
on a whim
nothing to fear
or hate
or love
there –

But each One
matters
each One
a world
that we
can no longer
count.

Trumped

Which laughed at your
naiveté
and rolled at your
disdain:
These eyes, they droop
in disbelief,
and seep
in
silent shame.

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