They hurry from my mouth 
in busloads, parting the red sea 

of lips on their journey 
to whiter pastures. My children, 

you have become so many, 
and I so old, so quickly. 

Night to me means suddenly 
I am all gums, soft pulp 

against the stiff dark, 
dreams of petrified words 

clacking in hopeless order 
around my tongue, nuance gone, 

only the taste of surface left. 
The molar of this story is unclear, 

close friends overlooked, or something, 
thrice daily more habit 

than devotion, a neglect of history. 
How can I dream you back into place, 

oh Israel, oh tooth, I need walls against 
the food of the world, that protein charge. 

When life puts its hand to my mouth 
I want to leave it with your mark.