Found in an old notebook of mine, circa 2010. (Where was I going with this?)
The twisted tooth-edged shrapnel:
We've made an art of it.
As people do, waiting through the oil
changes, for Christmases, undressing
and redressing the past.
And I've cut my hands
on the splintered days, on
the smallest shifts of your moving lips,
how memory can cripple
a morning.
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