These papier-mâché teeth only work
because my mouth no longer waters.
My words arrive as dry as my desires.
I want to be certain
that no family photo holding an image
of me (each already a lie
moments after it was taken) ends
up in a box lot at auction.
I really didn’t want to break
the moon, just shake it, change the spin
so it finally showed its other side,
an unmet landscape that really isn’t
all that different, like a tree’s branches
echo its roots, or like a body
echoes its missing soul.