a flurry of chalky moths fluttering in a small space.
my nerves are rattlesnakes and tooth-smoke.
there’s nothing worse than a poem,
hurtling into your ear, mid-written,
as you recline in the dentist’s chair,
a room full of licorice and
fingers empty of a pen.
wings huddled in china,
cupped between trembling hands.
my tongue is a silken building in the middle of
momentary hailstorms, star-showers.