Not that it matters
Not that it matters

I don’t think I’ll see you
ever again.
Not that it matters,
except to mad hatters
who’d kill themselves for a bit of poetry:
what joy is joy if Sylvia be not by?
I’ve forgotten much
of a faraway time –
not that it matters,
the memories in tatters,
except to mad hatters
pining to be a two-bit Shake-scene:
what light is light if Sylvia be not seen?


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