that’s gravity, like mountains
in the mouth.
fill me with everything under the sun.
socks. canned meat.
the family dog. too much, although
the temptation to explore a little deeper.
into secrets learned very early on.
how it should be. stay until
the locks all open.
we’ve seen it written in the stars.
you come tearing down the stairs,
hands wild and grasping.
the years have gone to salt,
begging for gifts that never arrive.
they wouldn’t
be gifts, anyway.
you break bread with
smoke. bring it no longer
to the middle or off to one side.
these, our broken fingers. or
thoughts in tangle
and we rest against tombstones.
drunk on someone’s hallucination,
in love
with lunging knives.
lounge amid pillbugs.
unbathed.
given over to earth.
