What shall I do with this knife

that you know I have


For I used it on you

before sheathing my mouth


Like a cat’s tongue

my own has flaying hooks


Barbed and sharper

than a bayonet


Sorry doesn’t repair

when said in the same voice –


when nettled by dandelion’s

soft seeds of whispered floss


That scatter and diversely

shower the air with dispersed


feelings of regret.




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