Buttermilk

By , Swampscott, MA
Buttermilk
Books crumble
White as
Stale short
Cake

That sour
Scent
Lies like
Lard
Pulpy on the
Palate

Those spoiled
Pages
Taste like
Parched fingers
Licked

Sweet black
Ink
Sucked marrow-less
By
Countless thirsty
Eyes

Like
Tacky glue
Caramelized

Broken spines
Brittle as toffee
Cracked
Against
Your paper-
Ivory
Jaw

And
Sugar-dust
Settling
On Crust-coated
Covers
And
Sunlight fading
Bitter words
Into mild
Silence





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