The exposed root of tooth, yanked,
now dried of blood, upturned
as a desk ornament, is part palm
raised in blessing,
part antler of a disappearing buck.

My carbon kiss print,
washed by waves,
made small by dental surgery,
sticks to my lips, a remembered smile
of your voice on the phone.

I hope whoever pries
finds my checkbook balanced,
my baseballs dusted on their wine
bottle perch and my coffee cup
saving a swallow for your return.

My scripture today reads, "As a deer
pants for water..."  so might it be
a geography of brothers holding flutes
at opposite sunsets, the beach
taking the prow of a canoe,
right on the chin.

Will SchmitComment