Out of Mouth

In the morning, we are elk
flesh. We are bones and
cigarette burns with coffee kisses

decorating our corpses. I hold
                          you—globed. Dropping you to turn
                                          tattered books over

                          twelve times. We are nothing
                                          if we stay here. I will be names
                          rolling off of your tenderized

tongue when the first
            sika deer calls
to you through the fog.

At lunch, we are rabbit
            fur. We are tiny hairs, the peach
fuzz on baby skin. We are still

decorating our bodies. I don’t
            hold you anymore. You stand
in the sand, toes curled under,

sewing your fingers
            into your corduroys. Your teeth
scrape the corner flesh.

                          At sunset, we stay.
                                          Nothings on the tongue fed
                          to me at lunch. The clamshell

                          I ash in is full. The globe
                                          I held you in spins
                          on the shelf. I make room for another,

                          glycerin filled, and shaken
                                          first. Let me decorate
                          them—this time.