Here on the third floor,
the wind shakes the couch,
my teacups rattle in their sleepy saucers.
The taste of tooth-smoke still whisps
through my gaps. My cheek continues
its lonely swell that muddles my speech.
How can there be so much dark
inside these tiny pebbles of teeth?
Clenched in my sleep, they crumble
under dream-pressure, lean on each other
until my pink gums let go,
untwine fingers from holding hands,
and I awaken with the hard truth
of a round tooth-moon
to throw into the sky,
and the heat of unformed, unsaid words
buried in my pink gums.