Sharon Lin

and she picks me a tooth from her pile of tools, carved
in half-moon curves along its front edge. The other
edge covered in two-sided jags, falling, marked
by my inability to find it again. Behind her, columnar
light from the moon and a street lamp blazing. Cried
into her arms, she says, it’s alright to fall. Did you care
for bad teeth? I seized the morning on a fogged
up roof. I was stuck in Japan. Now it’s late September
and the dream house wakes me up. While I punch
at the clouds for air, for respite, and find pigeon dust,
she passes me the crumbs. It’s a fine bread crunched
into pieces. In any other city, you make a fuss
about the dream house, its engineers and bandits perched
on the deck with their rules, infinitudes, thin lust.