let me not be explicit.

reach with a finger and thumb

pinch

into the wide moaning O

of your mouth,

your mouth, not my mouth,

and wrench with a desperate crack

(like the sound

of a billiards game in the next room)

the softn'd tooth

spilling spit and blood.

hold in your hand,

your hand, not my hand,

the decades old fossil

that was your friend,

your friend, not my friend,

and look for the ghosts

of all that pointed grinding.

when you're done,

(not finished because

finished rhymes with nothing)

when you're done

look once more, ease back

and sigh. there, right there

you'll find your poem.

your poem, not my poem.

2/7/2023