Thursday, December 01, 2005

Thomas Fink, "You Think This Tooth"


is working out. Signs yell slow
soon: visible tresses, viable trees. Or
erotic erosion afoot. Traffic cult rousing

our severance panxiety. Pulled over, shovel
your winsome handicap. Against a hardy
sackcloth tinderbox roaring shell. Cloud could
bitch tuna. Couple toppled by rogue

golf in a snake nest, in
a hot hotel cupola. It can’t
hole my interest. Brain studies its
arraignment. You can be truly thermoplastic
when you don’t need. Let’s rinse

the demented suede suction. When I
cut my copula now, I cut
it into very small monologues, because
I claim it that way.