Poems

After that Strange Church Wedding

After that strange church wedding 
each night is the same:
the gates to the city are closed,
the lights are put out, the bridges are raised
and shadows belonging to no one
start moving through the damp streets.
I walk from window to window
to look out at the square with the guillotine 
and the river full of blood,
and I remember being taught in childhood,
Don’t fall in love with your self:
he will always love someone else.
After that strange church wedding
each night that should have been yours
now belongs to Bartholomew. 

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