POP
Sexually moribund,
around the hip
bone wear your
tangled tongues
count your coup
like the erupting
snaps of corn
leaping inside the
microwave; hear
the breaking
behind the glass
like the sorting
of your self
from your selfish
selflessness, and
add enough salt
to pretty the dead
exposure behind
the knobs of your
eyeballs turning
themselves inside
out in fits of faints
and testing our
conversations by
seeing how wide
our mouths will
open.