MOUTH

 

What shall I do with this knife

that you know I have

 

For I used it on you

before sheathing my mouth

 

Like a cat’s tongue

my own has flaying hooks

 

Barbed and sharper

than a bayonet

 

Sorry doesn’t repair

when said in the same voice –

 

when nettled by dandelion’s

soft seeds of whispered floss

 

That scatter and diversely

shower the air with dispersed

 

feelings of regret.

 

 

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2017

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