There’s a sick, sad little space
between tea spoons and midnight
where the teeth on your fingertips chatter
and the ink in your forearm prattles on
about which bone you’re going to pull out this time
and how your chapped lips taste like poetry
but your dry eyes can’t bend around the prosody
and it’s in that space that my clothes turned into feathers
and flew away with the *****
the one that pipes out those same four chords
and tempered breath made into rotting elephants on sale
but the bazaar called for more than just pennies
and I don’t think my cough medicine blinks enough
to make this dance hall stop spinning