Non-Erotic PoetryInsectInsect
A fan-heater, noisy,
switched into silence:
the heat goes quickly,
the room grows cold.
Stirred by the chill
an unseasonal insect,
fattened on others,
covets the body in bed.
The thought to kill it
crosses the mind,
but innocents find it
also innocent.
So loving souls
wake sick and old
with wounds for which
love has no balm.
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English
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