And after

Vibrations in measuring cups

form salty sips that fall

on lips full of thoughts

now stifled upon the clock

and its heavier arms

that move, move harder

than smiles, the raising glass, and song –

better at marking time.

And where am I, in this

stripped within myself

for little more

than a hit

felt briefly on the knoll

before we tumbled like children

down the meadow hill

that was, could have been

but for the neuron fed

punches at the maw

opening upon ourselves.

 

Jarrod Bates

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