Teeth
Our teeth will fail us before our throats.
Our throats will fail us before our lips.
Our lips will fail us before the words,
but the words will fail us.
They've failed all before us, just ask
the graves we used to call
warmth, the creeping things that
never learned
even simple road sign pronunciation;
it's foolish
to think entropy will skid around us
as though we were surprised raccoons
crossing a highway at night.
Faith is an abstraction one
must constantly convince the page of;
why depend on the intangible?
Luck is an accounting
of odds practiced by amateur
alchemists cum mathematicians, equally
unreliable. The work will sour. Things
will droop, fall off in some places,
sprout in others. Our tools, our hands
will fail us. Complain now,
while the teeth still stink of fresh rot,
the gums
just beginning to give way.
C.L. Bledsoe
Posted over on Clearfield Review
1 comment:
Excelent text, I loved it.
The inevitable decadence of the body is always behind your back, you can take care of it as much as you want but eventually it will fail, decay, teeth start to rotten and fall from their place
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