Slow pains sparkle like tin pans most nights
Most nights when we sleep on our sides and our wrists
Yours; mine; I cannot tell without more pause but
All the same they are inescapable yet effervescent.

[If Faulkner uses abject one more time I will...]

There are troubles with this tongue and this teeth
And I cannot express them now but in time
In time, all the mistakes will be crossed out.

I found a crumbling ladies’ fan beneath my dresser
It does not belong to me
The edge is very sharp, I could use it to
Cut your wrist and cool myself with
Whatever is in your veins.
It would not look like blood
I feel like you are full of chilled soup
It’s a wonder that you are not yet crumbling or
Underneath my dresser.