Treasure Island

Sara Fielder

An Instrumental

There was honey on the thigh of her bow
crying in time with his piano steps,

dripping down their hands
into sticky dilated pools

of heavy hymn.

Melting bedroom walls
sucked seconds

off the face of time
like absinthe

Heated heaving breast breaths banged like

the crescendo of notes
digging into the backbone,
and evaporating into

ecstatic echo's of remembrance.

Submitted: Saturday, November 10, 2012

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  • Smoky Hoss (12/2/2013 6:09:00 PM) the face of time like absinthe... now that IS a perfect-poetic line indeed! (and a great drink to boot!)
    Superb poem. (Report) Reply

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