like icicles on my nose. Hanging
jagged with pointed tip, so sharp
they cut my lower lip. They rusted
from sitting outside in a paper
cup. I held them up
to the sun. It's years since
they've run like a river
down my face. They baked
in place like the cheese
souffle. Hardened like a ball of
clay. Then cracked into lines
I pen. My ink is wet. Better it than them.