there are too many ways
to be open—
too many agreeable sounds
I can make
which burst from my
throat in a flame
in between us, and
would seem
to irradiate
my plain and cold reticence
in pulled-tooth
display of ingratiating
grace.
Privately, I may worry
about the cost
of these displays—
worry how many words
from my finite supply
I can frack
from my insides,
pipe away, and set ablaze
before my polite, hollow
body collapses—but
how could I possibly
not agree with
what you say,
whatever the inward
price I must pay?
