X
YEARS IN GEARS
 
I’ve a pica for teeth;
I’m a bug in a cup for you.
 
I tell everyone: “Desserts
first, surely.” But,
 
to you, I say: “The last two will fall
as surely as the first.”
 
That’s all, not sweet, I’d rather not
blandish. I miss writing badly:
 
“I want—”
I abstain
 
and though full and heavy, I’m peckish.
My wandering
 
red, flat feet and I
can’t sleep.
 
Funny, I imagine
this zygote yanked, bobbing
 
in the metropolis. Cut the ribbon
and up it flies.



​