Disclaimer: Tonight I write my own
fictions, push them deep and deeper
down in denim pockets and grin.
I taste and taste of pineapple.
It was the Matisse smiling at me
there which is to say
the lumpy yellorange fruit made me think
smile
and so I did.
No, no.
It was a finger (yours) on elbow
(mine) as we walked from there
to here, or the same finger (yours)
trained on the horizon, or a different
finger (mine) strumming at
the moment when lips (yours) made haste
as if to flutter.
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