This one was just a fragment


I throw these poems underneath her feet
that she might pause and read them as I chase
Her. otherwise I could not win this race,
from love would die. Poems like apples sweet

and firm and golden. Atalanta fell
Diana’s huntress, chaste, austere and fast.
But golden apples caught her eye at last
twisted her ankle, turned her heart as well,


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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