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Replying to a comment on:
Slowing - or, A Love Poem with Eggs and Short Lines (Lyric) by zodiac My love, she has
astonishing ways
of slowing, when
the eggs are done
and I'm bug-spas-
ming in my skin -
and who ever was
who liked cold eggs?
My love, she tips
the change-dish off
the curio, when
she'd rather stay in
she frets, she doffs
her dress again
or finds my lips
not fast enough.
She says, don't think me a fool for this;
I know exactly what time it is.
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