Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

Underneath Her Lips


Moist is humid, grass when green and wet,
the grass is where I'm from.
Such simple rules without retreat.
Each pale face the moon is full,
to end your suffering, I would and yet.
Does she love me still?
Will she shed her garb and still be whole?
Some hate love and some love hate.
Young girls they still grow blindly hotter,
some grow faint.
The glow upon her face the rain has drained
the only place that I've known rest.
Underneath your lips I've found my place.

Submitted: Sunday, July 14, 2013
Edited: Monday, July 15, 2013

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