But before she sleeps
On satin pillows and billowing clouds
Will fondle her breasts with a listless hand
And languishing cast her eyes
On phantoms
And wayward ghosts
That rise and unfold before her
When involuntarily she sheds a tear
A poet priest
(and insomniac)
Will catch that pearl in his hand
And stow it away in the darkness of his heart
(That precious gem contraband to the sun)
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