so my teeth won't.
as sharp as a southern axe,
they gnaw at your heart,
I know.
keeping us both up at night.
tomorrow, I'll smoke cigarillos,
and read George Eliot poems
just for the helluvit.
I don't have nothing left.
Because of pencil lightning,
I am still living.
Standing still can be a thrill
if we are window sills
without flowers or pies.
Jim always says to me
to always try to be my own.
What if one day
I run out of poems?
That's a helluva break pedal.