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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=555765" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Her Folkloric Senses</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=555765" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Castrations do not know my shadows—<br>My dog sleeps at my feet until I do not know<br>Anyone else: <br>The racehorses turn around like my father<br>Until this is no better news from Christmas—<br>And I have learned from all of the <br>Estuaries—<br>Strangest of cathedrals where no one plays football<br>And none of the babies sleep—<br>Across from the high school—or across from the<br>University where there is an ever busy beanstalk following <br>The fairytales up into the clouds—<br>As my make-believe wife rises from her bed of clouds, <br>And giving me her folkloric senses, pretends to love me<br>As best she can.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>

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