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The Pale Embalmer




I see the pale embalmer giving me a look,
but look—he does not covet me!
He has other custom on his hook,
doesn't care if I remain free
for now. How often for hardness
must his softness
be mistook.

Spontaneous feeling
is spring year-round.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.