Bundle, Then Swift the New Year

Where they pushed
the drunk girl face down on the hood,
a lip print. I watched her split.

Consequently, I want to write
all manner of tender things. Filigree
the moon with other slights.

But all the children in the streets tonight
have dirty smiles, each mouth, a moon that carries
a second mouth around it.

We couldn't bruise easier. Blood taken
leaves a print: blue, black, then green.
A trace of the hit.

Oh, here comes a mouth to cover it.

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Copyright © 2014 Ruth Williams All rights reserved
from Fourteen Hills
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission