As – alas – love dies, reserve
for me, dear lover, the last force
felt. Then blast, eject, preserve
each pique. Lovers gaze, adore,
(endear!?), and mourn, preserved
coy, in twain, blinking,
lay, at gibe, to dug rot.
Lit. Ex. (I)
Scrabble II
Published by squidditas
Whaddupp, my name is Sam Hickford. I am due to graduate my PhD from St Andrews in December. I wrote about Clare and contemporary poetry. I have a book, Poems Sketched Upon the M60, published in 2021. I have quite a few academic papers which you can find here: https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Sam-Hickford. I publish other people here too, but unless it is signalled that someone else is the author, I am the author. View all posts by squidditas
Squidditas 