The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Ann Cale
Madam, you are enticing me again;
you are tickling my funny bone
with these mushrooms you have grown up in the night.
They are the tender oddments of your thought:
graceful or gross, bland or gall
and I have stolen them to lay along a paper towel.
Trapped again, enchanted,
I am your creature.
You have made me smile,
raining down your storm of dusty fingerprints:
coronas behind black stars.
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