The spirit is a smoky haze,
That lives inside your body.
Like a wisp of fog in the harbor
That follows the boats out.

At times it evaporates,
And other times in hangs on.
It depends on the weather.

And your buck-teeth are
The tooth edged axe hurtling down.
Taking a bite out of the *** of a beech tree,
Or the hot crust of dark rye toast.

You pull me in like a victim of an
Industrial lathe accident, shown
In classes on workplace safety,
Where you walk out glad to be intact.