everyone I love sits around a poker table, emerald
and haunted like Van Gogh’s Night Café —
Read Moreall the things torn open,
growing green with mold, bite marks.
She tells me what I already guessed.
It’s in the way we can’t make eye contact.
two mouths of sound
at impact ::
The mouth of the shears squeaks closed.
The mouth of the shears squeaks open.
How much there is to do.
How much there is to do wrong.
Each morning I woke in a dry riverbed.
By November my walk shriveled
from this day forward,
for better for worse
and moonworms crawl from my
mouth. You say my laugh is itchy