The curse of words,
always looking for a home—
a place to light for a moment.
I nod off into a dream
as he fits a gold crown
over what he’s ground away
that begins with a dog
I don’t know—it could have been
anything in the distance calling
before I wake to latex fingers,
metal instruments in my mouth
and mumble something about
how dreams start—
like a poem
open to the rain.
It’s gray outside,
palm trees dancing
as fingers work together—
all I want are dreams and rain,
and just enough teeth to separate
the gristle from the meat.
for Darren Rich, D.D.S.
drycrikjournal 