Skin-knowledges, most desperate kind, the
Shudders, like wings, too close to the bone
With skills, a wordsmith, lifting drink to
Mouth, the singe of heart-burn is real, its
Shoes mark dirt, leave annotations—
A craving, the condition now advanced to
Feet under table…tongues snaking teeth,
Left to their own devices, words are born.
At least the scars are honest,
They kiss the backs of hands,
Dragging idioms across lots—
A false sense of brevity pour—
A wish: she should see the shape I’m in,
Ignore all others, the newest friends, learn
Nothing replaces the time I’ve needed, nor
The time I’ve put in; it can’t be re-given.