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Hypodermic dentures

The New Year slinks in
on his belly
dragging behind him such ice
it needles your face

It’s New–you’ve come
unstuck
from your country
and like a wolf in highbeams
it snarls it lunges

flashing hypoderm fangs
pushing your body through
the clear water

New–propulsion and deliciousness
New–simple and skimming-through
and the taut beat of the jugular
New–shooting into that slap
and breaking into white parcels
and repulsion and ridiculousness

You impale yourself with each
exhalation

No coldness no tightness of breath

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Posted by Lewis LaCook at 2:27 pm | Postmodern Poetry | Permalink

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