chapped lips

chapped lips breathe cold
the moon’s high-waised tide,
boot-cuffed above inner-tubed socks,
and lay their blistering ghost.

i’ll pluck the stars from
the bell-bottomed sky and lose
them in my pockets
brimming with short-change.

worlds rush white-water rapidly down
the coast-lining of my inner-seam.
my teeth chatter a groaned
implosion of splintered gums.

i wonder if the stars grate
and the angler fish’s light
gets rubbed out and he
needs A+D for chafing.

whether schools swim between supernovae
and if alligators toast bread
with their slice of moon and
strongly worded glass of red.

i think that the stars would
burn holes in my skin
through the underbelly of
my pockets’ wrong-turns

and that they’d be fragrant.


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