The walnut bag contains shells which
can crack your teeth, depending
on the strength of your jaw.
So many things are like this;
one bad bite and you’re changed,
just a little, forever.
Give me false teeth, an honest tongue,
and a stomach full of walnuts.
How about love that comes out
like a baby from its mother, with pain,
with labor, with new life and need?
Your teeth erode like tombstones.
You’re buried under the jaws
of white mushrooms chewing the sky.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
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Blog Archive
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2006
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April
(29)
- Poem
- The Man in Your Garden
- Giving up T.V.
- Jaw
- Habit
- The Coffeeshop's Last Week
- Lost Things
- Driving Tired at Night
- Ecdysis
- Work Routine
- The Imagination of Fathers
- Ugly Days
- ...But the Rent's Low
- Poems That Fail
- Creation
- Hometown
- Acceptance
- Losing the National Debate--A Consolation
- Responsibility
- One Man Down
- Influence
- The Workers Wait Out the Tornado
- Violence of Mind
- Love Note to Me, from Me
- Arguments at Work
- Morning, Early Spring
- Night
- Weather Change
- Routine
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April
(29)
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