After You Broke Up With Narcissus

If I could make love to myself,
I’d start with my hips—
sweet curve like morningfe1f64b599ed42caf657a7b99a0ee401
dew moistens tip of tongue
in strawberry season.
Ripened red fields rock
me in cradled vines. Whisper
my voice, cool my slick skin
in wind of door you slam
behind your back receding.


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