each finger has a cathedral empty of birds.
i climbed a pinnacle just to find it littered with
chalices. they are worshipping in the crawl space again.
i would sever my own tongue & use it as fire wood
if it would mean summer again. the flowers die
as closed fists. a shiver moves, vole-like
through the pipes of my apartmeny building.
we dance to tell our blood, "this is a bath house."
only it is not a bath house. it is an ice cube tray.
i pull my teeth out to look for gold. a match says,
"at least it isn't" but doesn't finish the sentence.
false apples. a laughing oven. my toes twist like stop signs.