The Roman Bath at Nimes, Henri Cole
Improving list method followed by sudden end-stop plea.
Nibbling your grilled cheese you told me
"write a poem" and as if your pan-fried
bread charred thought you told me
call it "Sex in your Mouth". Forgive me.
This poem is not about sex or the way
your drunk touch felt on the veranda,
but the pity I felt when your eyes pooled
over the expanse of tumbling green beyond us,
looking for a woman that wasn't me.
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