you married that black scarf
that hooks around your neck
like a rosyboa
the brim hat you wear
on sundays has pot shots on the
top from the squirrel gun
the veil of blood cascades
like the river Plath
into the white marble
monstrosity of achitecture
your paper tigers
can't fool me anymore
than your forgivenlips
wet from worring your tongue
between your teeth
like lime after tequila
our town never seemed so small
as when you left and came back
- your face, a Picasso of mystery
me no longer knowing
the corner of your smile
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