Dear Cut/Throat,

Let us not façade
fall loosely waiting
with a very slow

and easy motion
the contents of the
poem the dish of

fruit rotting in the
pantry carelessness
which I have compared

to a flat glass dish
in the bare blue skies
a woman’s gesture

the contents of the
poem broken ice
still carving new lips

but even the chips
find you on the page
astonished stammer

and they look crushed here
as your tight lashes
the sun wet with dreams

            slowly feeding a
            delirious speech
            to a taut barbed tongue