Ode to the Model Shop

And what to do
with those nails—I won’t bite
anything that close
to the foundation. Wouldn’t want
that from you. Or
to name you precious
sculpture. We both could stand
to move to the sound
of our own banging hearts.

Aphasic (Day 2,773)

Numb’s the word.
Just past summer 

solstice, no rain, muck
blows off 

as a dusty burst
of thoughts you may have—but 

they will remain trapped
in a cephalic void. The conversation 

is over.
I’m not ready. 

My jaw aches
from clenching 

teeth against the cruelty
of your disease. Look out, 

I can’t predict when
or where I’ll bite.