Nicotine Suite (No.5)

there is drip, miles of the sound of it, wet
like the noise of every book in the library
being silently read as viscous rain
bouncing from the umbrella of
what we thought we knew all too well.
baby at mother's breast
where mother is monster shrieking the
whole time with breath of Kali. I am
wordless, this is not me, I and not-I
passing in the courtyard, not-I failing
to notice, with breath like honey'd gasoline
and I with a tongue of ash
ever parenthetical.

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