Thistles HWSM 01 001

2021-11-01T00:00:00Z

Thistles And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve? Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss? My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree? The words of death are dryer than his stiff, My wordy wounds are printed with your hair. I would be tickled by the rub that is: Man be my metaphor. (p. 13) Thomas, Dylan. "If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love." 1935. Dylan Thomas: Collected Poems 1934-1952 . Dent, J.M. & Sons, 1952. https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.186512