maroon as if tipsy from wine, and now they disappear
one by one in a wooden salad bowl, stained and sweet.
It isn't dark yet. You're making this difficult for me.
How do these lips smile so slowly?
Your mouth moves like a washing machine, with
the idle chatter of a cherry. There are cigarette butts
on the floor and maybe one of them was yours -
maybe last year when we found ourselves small
in the summer grass, your lips were moving, quiet
and sweet. Maybe mine were moving too.
(how foolish. I never noticed you.)
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