There’s a well in the town I grew up
grown over by barbed wire,
rusted. I still believe
wind shakes through the metal
into the stone
& reservoir vibrates, sings
with golden water in its mouth.
The town recedes into a waking dream
of Celtic lore & love.
*this is the third in a five-day series of poems The Opiate is publishing by Scott Sherman. Read Day 1 here and Day 2 here.
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