Dark Babe

Glutton for punishment,
runaway without

good feet, dreaming about
foul play and rolls in hay and
souring fruit,

toothache from sugar too much,
bending inward and tweaking knobs
setting loins on fire,
sheepish in handshakes and irksome

Loch Ness of lake,
drifting in and out and never

curtailing questions with a flick of
lip, sneering lovingly at
chapel walks and candlelit

vinegar, archaic in speech but
loudmouth, hungry,
ravenous in jettisoning out windows
and fire escapes,

late, but arriving,
making it just in the nick of a

Eating the apple,
and loving it, keeping secrets as
good as an open book,

laughing at death,
whispering into fingertips and
planting tiny pecks,
sarcastic and lying:

“I don’t love you.”

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