Wednesday, August 17, 2011

The disasterette.

The lips I remember pickled when she smiled--were too shy
To just bite into a raw onion.

Her teeth were small, and her palate drew from the scud of

I want to impress on you mustard, mother-of-pearl.
The garnishes borne to the fragrant curd of
The curb--

Our blueberries are bulging with noxious wine.

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