Sort of maybe
chewing over things
crooked English teeth
tease chipped-tip flesh
I can’t resist
I bite the mouth
that feeds.
It comforts me -
peeling tender skin,
the kind within, beneath.
There is no rush
so I must desist
to bite this mouth
that feeds.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 6th, 2007 at 11:44 pm and is filed under Cosmicity.