The taste of copper lingers
where a sweet taste never was
I could argue that there was never anything
so sweet
but I haven't got the time.
And nothing noted in particular can
make me feel so queasy.
I can draw a song of blues
without covering the white spots with ink
and I can make you feel
so angry
without shaking my head
or shredding the crumpled lines
Speaking is our possessive talent
Whispering in breezes
filtering through ears and mouths
where we can keep them
maybe not for too long
or maybe forever
just until our pages fill and the binding splits
