baring your incisors
makes sense to smile them at me
after devouring the spoils;
after it’s all over.
there was a pressure to be bad
overwhelming the senses,
invading me like
pariahs of taking
lords of waste,
and those flaring incisors
like a white traffic signal:
not like any human communicator.
then we sat on the edge of a
fallen tree trunk heaving
hard to find.
things went along dreamily, absentmindedly
and then you flashed by before me and
not intending to be remembered,
and in doing so became
(running, she clenches her fist around him
but too late, he had already done it it is too late)
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry