are straight
as a geometric line.
A curling rod wouldn’t
lift them.  I sift through
the day as flour in a sieve,
with lumps on top -
It's no way to live.

My lips
are stuck
together
as the valves in a clam.
I don’t talk to people.
It's the way I am.

My lips
are pale
as the cold winter's moon. I color
them red with thick cream. But it
smudges as fudge and sticks
to my dreams.

My lips
are cracked
as drywall spackle
slapped on the wall. I look
as a clown in view
of them all.