They say that dreams of losing teeth 

are about a power 



as if our half-moon row of folded forms —

leather-hard, enameled glaze —

were snatched 

from us

in the firing. 


Isn’t it easy to think? that

if only 

we had gotten the chance 

to set our jaw

just so —


we could have controlled

the kiln.



there is something so 


in the way a moose molar 


hiding nothing,

its coiled roots exposed,

as if it knew it would be placed

just so

against a fallen spruce.


Did it resist the fierce fire

that freed

its light 

from form?

or did it merely fall


leaving its half-moon row 

like a talisman,

holding both sky and earth


as if 

the only way to hold 


was to be wholly

in it all.

Categories: Uncategorized

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