Go Slow, Leonard Cohen
I had a dream Leonard Cohen
was my first and I was his last.
Go slow don’t hurt me, I whispered.
Go slow don’t kill me, he warned.
He taught me why the yellow dog
howls when the pink rose blooms
in the dark of night while the rain
runs in rivulets down the window.
He showed me that sometimes I
would be the dog, sometimes I
would be the rose. But both of us
were always the rain. And to
go slow. The end would come
by Tricia Marcella Cimera
Editor’s Note: Repetition meanders through this poem’s lines to great effect. The beginning and the end surely resemble each other.
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