Clung to a shifting vernacular,
speech unclear, gnawing the soft
inside of the cheek
in nervousness.
I am sure that my inflection
is not quite right.
So it rings like pre-dream
sounds, conversations wove from
ceiling fans and knocking
radiators.
The wisdom teeth
are suspended
evolutionary echoes,
mine puncture the gums
crowd the mouth—
attempt a chance
at gnashing some tough thing,
but these days I hardly
chew meat, and molars
are best fit for sinew.
I thought how romantic
to bury a milk-tooth
under a Banyan tree.
So for some hours
I played witch,
decided fertility would be
the aim, precipitation
the result.
Thus ensued
a continuation of longing,
the rain washed
earth from the spade.
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