I wish the words would spill out
sand crashing from the oversized hourglass of my shattered mouth
my teeth so many shards that I can’t quite let you put your finger on;
possible that it would or could pad the way from the cuts across my tongue
words are sharp
teeth and bits of rock,
I wonder how they could possibly be anything other than slicing bits
piercing truths, things that disclose the light behind the curtain of organics.
Me, I’m hoping it all pours out,
bursts in a green cloud,
turns to deep glass,
an instantaneous flash
from the angle of repose
to a Windexed version of time
frozen by a mushroom;
I want to see it go down slowly,
burning in a haze of novels,
software engineers, social science majors.
I know that if it does,
you’ll read the rest of these damned poems.