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
heads
on
glass,


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)

    ...off 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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