MOUTH
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.
