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by Ed Bennett

This night, this anarchy our love creates
In shadows, rutting like youth besotted
Our reason yoked to the fire of our flesh;

A motel room rank with the spite of bans
Trashed on a tired pagan mattress, sheets
wound about two bodies bound in vulpine pride

Each thrust a strike at an unknowing spouse
Each groan a cry to justify collusion,
to echo empty promises this night

Then dress in penumbral stare of lamps
Turned low to mock the romance held in these
Moments stolen, sheathed in rank mendacity.

And I will never love you more than now
In the afterglow of my delusion,
Your half cocked smile, our parting feral kiss.

From a forthcoming posthumous collection On the Porch by Ed Bennett (Quill and Parchment Press in conjunction with Angela O'Callaghan)  

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