be still now,
this bare hour of tar centipedes
in waiting boots
take the morning breath
that hangs like chalk dust in december air.
the shudder of night along a cheekbone,
makes familiar turn and cough.
absence is as tasteless as space
wrought as hunger in china stomachs.
who would be whole if filled with glass?
don't worry, you've already lost
ten and twenty and a hundred times.
