how empty are all your handfuls?
do we all sleep where the wolves blink-
and the moon seep into howling
lather?
do we choke on the foam
of our persistent cadavers by scooping -
lungs from a pit of breathlessness?
do we do such things to under-last
the span of our questioning?
if so, is all the life at our fingertips
gleaming euphoric in a fit of grief?
or at an angle in a wrinkle
of mischief
that corners the bruise
where the pretty
Is a living
thing?