Eyes See What I See
Lips Who Am I?
Ear Find My Work
What’s Your Mood? What’s Your Mood?
CONNECT Talk to Me
mostly faces
with their hands to eyes set at ninety degree angles,
politely declining the warpath of a summer day
for those that look directly into the sun scare me.
the waxy underbelly of a grasshopper,
smooth and electric and difficult to touch.
a prick may cause deflation.
that break one long breath in two,
the staid stutter of a newborn baby,
a lurid slip of the tongue.
that snort tea and biscuits
and the airy elasticity of noise
that settles on old shoulders like dandruff.
perpetually hungry,
the kind that eat its own words
and spit chatter
into sentimental sandwiches and undercooked cakes.
discovering their fingertips
for the first time,
but practice bending every chance they get.
gyrating like a rusting iron bar,
loose at the hinges
if it were not for their sinews.
and minds
that eat other minds for breakfast.

the people you meet, you keep.

like sighs, interrupting,

nothing more than the staccato of death.

they pause, I begin. I begin, they pause.

do we still call it breathing?