Her Teeth
she had no teeth to speak of
a no man’s land of fence stumps
and gate stiles
earthen up after an august storm
or a hard whack
to the mouth
The Cremator
the cremator wears gloves to keep the bones
and teeth from working up under the moons of his nails
his wife has a duster made from twills of hair
for scalloping up under his thumbs
block and tackling what little
remains of man and child
gods and faith
Wind-gallows
what a curious little man he is
cataracts like cats’ whiskers
whitening the shells of his eyes
eyes that see with such precision
through stones hard as mirrors
beyond the steep sculls of rain
scattering like children
into the warmth of waiting skin
and the night, slowly climbing
up the back of my throat
like a cursed nail, a rigor mortis
filling up the empty spaces
with storms and wind-gallows
and to think that you, a child no more
with eyes brighter than night stars
cannot see the cataracts, white as shells
hardening your sight to the wind-gallows
and nails, cursing the rigor mortis
of waiting skin
Rotten Apples
beetles
lay their
eggs
beneath
my
fingers
carapaces
hard as
apples
like Kafka’s
back
Whites’ (over)
Borges’ (oysters) whites
skinned over, left to
touch, smell, bumps
and (mind’s eye)
