John D. Robinson

TASTE

I could sense the

evening slipping

into my glass

like a diamond

ring onto a

slender finger,

like our lives

forever slipping

away from

the light:

I lifted the glass

and drank

deep and could

taste the

breath of a

neglected

poet

perched on the

words of a

promise,

I drained the

glass and knew

that I had

known of the

end from

the

beginning,

the bitterest

of tastes.

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