spring came with her multitudes
like a palm sunday procession
entered town thru the front door
walking down the street
as the soul walks from
father to mother
the bird from the town hall clock went out
to welcome her
fell over winter rags
pouring the time over people
spring
this daughter of time
put on too much perfume
her round breasts are like two strawberries
a friend once told me
never ever fall in love with a poet
he'll eat your eyes at breakfast
have your heart cooked for lunch
and in the evening he'll listen
quietly your laments
while drinking a glass full of tears
your tears
now this shit might be true or not
one thing's for certain
i've since written some poems
and always been keeping an empty glass nearby
on the silence ward
we tip-toe in
words
dressed like wounds
and fiddle with
spots
where the chin
hits the chest
repeatedly
incessantly
stretching them
wide into
smiles
over milk teeth
until tongues
lay dry
as prunes
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