Nine Minutes

by | Dec 15, 2015 | Poetry

The butterfly’s tongue—

sharp and golden—

roots for the sweetest flower;

knows her name by taste.

 

If I kiss you after our time empties

like a long river into the brackish

delta I do not think I’ll know you.

So whose name should I call

when you answer your phone tomorrow

when I cannot use it now to keep you?

 

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