triumvirate

the fulsome    
curse word
that deformed my tongue-

the teeth
in glaze
of remnant
soap-

and the shadow
my mother’s finger
left
inside my cheek
which I coaxed
into cigarette

and scrubbed with.


divine instance*

regarded by a daylight raccoon
a man tries to think of nothing.

the raccoon’s eyeful of hunger
a far off religion
the dead of which
orphaned only
a few.

the bent pipe of its back
the gnomic antique
of a raided circus.

its claws
the common salvage
of row fire.

    so fully raccoon
it might’ve been
earlier
what now
it would fight.