FALL AWAY

People fall away sometimes,
gently with haiku lips,
loudly on devil’s legs.

The fall strips them somehow,
the vines that shrivel around
fat and thin branches
shake and shiver as
the limbs fall wide.
The decimated trunk
— finger brittled with
worm tunnels—
is exposed to the sun and frost
while the bark shivers quickly,
ribbon like peels crinkling away
until the trunk is whittled clean
by nature’s honest scrape
to expose the wood
— white, white, silver white —
like potato insides,
like new snow flowers
falling in dark hair.

People fall away sometimes —
and blanche open.

TEETH PEARLS

Your teeth are silver-gray pearls,
beautiful and round,
delicate in silver sheath,
harsh and square,
ruthless in black shadows.

You are like that;
never static,
just rolling through,
square and round,
smooth and brute,
all in your teeth.

The words you form
trickle through like
sweet poison.