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A Bout

Spring, a bad time for bruises 

and for teeth though not for

tongues or noses or cheeks.

 

Wind lifts, abraids, between

fine newing leaving its sunlit

scent intoxicating blooms

 

ones lips embrace suddenness

tasting the idea of

blossom drift. Certainly

 

this is embarrassment

a stupid reminder

of the sweet time it takes

 

for breath and breeze to warm

to one another and

how our impatience

 

rushes to the surface

unknown until some pressure

puts a finger on it.

 

Wince shocked, blink recalling

no when in particular

then grimace, gnash, wait,

 

relax. You know it doesn’t

matter, grin as you glimpse

detritus flower cede.

Posted 03/21/15
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