legends are wrapped in foil
and waiting in the fridge.
leftovers from last night’s party.
this all started with a wink,
a story that ran from your grasp,
wound its way around all of our hips.
the vines kept climbing
toward the bedroom window,
so I cut them with a butterknife.
they dangled from the sill
like a torn hem of a curtain,
like your shirt over
the tops of your thighs.
No comments:
Post a Comment