Of Root Canals and Stalled Poems

..like so much perfume in your mouth
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.