What’s the time Mr. Wolf?
I pause and soon
he howls out his answer
head raised to the full Moon.
She soaks up the call and deigns
to translate his ghostly words:
shines them down from her throne
of straggled winterbranch.
I can barely make out the hands,
her voice a translucent apparition,
cast upon the watch face.
There it is: the time.
It is the Witching Hour.
I turn away from the path
through or into dark wood.
How do you know it’s love?
I wish to split every fruit I eat with him
it is the closest thing to love
when we both share the taste of sweet
I want to wake him up to feed him slices
of crisp apples
and soft nectarines. And kiss his mouth
with my sticky mouth.
It is the closest thing to love
If you didn't find any water
then drink from the néctar of roses
like dating in the poets' farm.
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