Lovers on a bench
Again, again, again.
A month ago
Last December (in a gallery)
The Revolution, and after still,
By the Seine
In London, when onstage both were men (but now off too, and also out).
Again, again, again.
But not to me.
So frequently sitting, holding
Silently, in smiles, in strokes,
In tears before miles apart.
But not to me.
Atrocity of war, atrocity of the heart.
Not for me.
I live in peace, and I beg it.
But peace is stillness
And stillness is on a bench
In the park
Still, after all these years.


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