the clock is sick with activity.
i check it far too often,
like an old suicidal friend.
i'll never see the end of it but i always expect to.
instead i watch my shoes,
and cross my arms,
defensive of the time.

sour, ample, the fruit bursts over my teeth,
pushing, racing to the end
bile heavy in my stomach, on my tongue,
to the ground.
i can't help the way the words flush under my skin
and beat their way across my lips.
regardless,
i am proud of my memories,
of the curve of your cheekbone.

the puppet ran over the hills
and stomped his feet.
the child drank the water we gave her.
the man forgot the woman,
and the woman forgot, too.
nothing could compare to you.

tell me again
about the child
who could think it was beautiful
and the poem that doesn't know itself.