"It was this long," you say,
extending your arms,
"And it was striped, with silver
scales and blue shadows."
The man with purple eyes lifts
his eyebrows; you laugh at his
joke about the lady in the
sausage suit, your toes find his
under the table, and he is yours.
Evening expires in a yawn of stars.
But on the walk home, when he
pulls you into the hedges, and the
black tongues of leaves flutter,
and those boogey-man eyes glitter,
There won't be time for coming
back with lies, with lies.
Written by Rita Dove
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