Henry’s Teeth

The bruise on my leg is healing
and the laptop as a source is light radiating, the glow
of a million sites and bytes negotiating
their value in a dark room.

The sun has become the same, we don’t
love her because she’s romantic. We
love the heat
for the ways it can alter us.               At night, I sit and think.

Or often I lay and I’m sprawled anywhere, sink
my teeth into the fleshless body of my HP pavillion
as my fleshless body is all the less

static. Fleeting.

Somewhere, there is a boy named Henry.
I imagine him red-headed or strawberry blond, about
to fall in. love
biting the edge of a Styrofoam cup. Is there
much more innocent than that?

Every time I lie, it’s  a fiction, every time I feel – it is
poetry, or if the feeling is a lie you can guess if it matters
what it is. Maybe
the bruise is not healing at all.

Think of everyone on beaches, think of
their cracked phones, their browning bones
their cameras. From the inside out: a fiction.

The grooves in the cup are teeth-marked canyons, stories
of unworn retainers and unconventional beauty. Semi-circle
and the imperfect symmetry tells tales of Henry. Falling in

love. On beds, I love and dream. Love
is no more miraculous than dreaming, dreaming
and love become stories so fast.

No one on beaches are real, anymore. 

The computer is the sun nowadays
I confuse my identity with moons, rotate, revolve
publish and play and print, transfer my heart and lungs into


My organs became imprints. How I feel
outside under clouds, without clothes, without the weight
of translation: poetry.

If he found everyone with crooked teeth and gave them
cups and asked them, please, (sir or ma’am) take a bite
for me, I am
collecting the half-moon markings of strangers, the flaw
in this geometry is a thing-that-I-love

The Bruise:

I can’t count or remember
the injury, though it looks like  galaxy, purple
and black upon skin. On my legs which are as they say, great.

It does

possess a history, forgotten, half-
made up like dreams.

Imagine the 5 by 7 masterpiece that would be this art
this collection this
must-be-love: nonfiction,
Henry’s teeth-marks and the marks of strangers on styrofoam.
You could simply fall in.

What I mean to say is that on the beach: a woman,  a ruse
with flowers in her hair and Urban Decay on her lips. A siren

And I am at much more peace in the dark, though the text
moans in my hands
wanting an imperfect body.

No one on beaches are real, anymore.

I shut the HP, and dream of Henry’s teeth.

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