7 13 15 (Campo Grande)
by Tom Murphy


I saw you in between the hedgerows
Arms around his neck, straddling his thighs

On a wooden bench. Your eyes didn’t meet—
No—closed to the world with mouths locked,

His hand wandering the expanse of your back.
In this darkness of green tendrils and squawk

Of the peacocks, you’re not the only to couple
Frighten of others’ prying eyes has become

Lost in the rush of his pulse against
Your close heat. He loves you, so he’s said

And whether there is any truth in his
Profession doesn’t seem to bother your lips.






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