I dream of hands--
skeleton hands, adorned with silver rings
all mine, clasped in my stomach.
their stunted tips find my mouth
delicate dance on the round, full flesh,
minding carefully the corners--
ghost brushes,
and I feel heat rise in my mouth,
a cavern that fills with baked pollen
metamorphosing into blood;
it is thick
mellifluous licorice, rivers
both obsidian and crimson,
tickling the ends of glass fangs like
Waterford crystal.

I dream of
glass fangs. . . .

Yes.
They slid out of my gums,
knife through the jelly center,
slick and wet and cold--
winter morning, pond-frozen jeans,
dead angel eyes--
cold like nuclear winter, paralyzed snowfall
and indescretion in hiding hunger.
these little teeth
perspire like car windows or

nothing at all . . . .

hunger.
beast, you are
gluttonous.
the sin is your caramel
turgid wall in your throat;
you thrash with obtuse expression
and I grind my teeth
so that my
pearly gums bleed.

they loosen, they do,
loosen, dangle,
fall
to the pit of my throat, and
thrown by my tongue, descend
into the tomb of my stomach with its
pollen and fug.

I dream of cat paws--
claws that yowl and press at my stomach,
they wait for winter and stew in desire
but will be
frozen by
sunup.