Shark Teeth

They are fossilized and belonging.

The sense of pushing.

And evolution is tantamount.

The shark teeth are fossilized and resemble snowflake obsidian, jasper, magnetite.

Coincidences are just things we turn into.

Others.

I keep them in a plastic tube for coins and spill them out across my palm.

Mostly they are smooth.

The lapidary blue wash hasn't done its work.

I think when I look at you.

You are not the teeth.

Some of them maintain serrations; some points would pierce my fingertip easily.

And I do push.

It's dawn with that resemblance blue outside.

Two people walk holding hands. Each wonders at how the other is awake.

To be outside.

You could invoke a word like love.

The teeth. And the missing cave. And holding hands.

Language. The toothlike dwelling.

A filmic presentation spools on the hand.

The hurry and the rush of it.

Ante up a tooth.

One tooth pushes another out the way words will come to wayward humans.

The being at home and the alien sense of other thoughts which must contain it.

Teeth are not at home.

The predatory calmness in the real feel for language. Of language.

An animal below vocalization.

The reel.

Disturbs in the way.

A hunger below vocalization.

Disturbs the field of resonance which is the voice.

Piecedness. Or a sudden landscape in your mind.

Which is the amplitude of voicedness under its water.

The other thing.

You come to it at morning in the way you come to an awareness of an object
which will not vocalize its hunger.

But still the hunger to exist.

I refuse you something.

Teeth removed from a mouth from another geological age.

Mineralizing essence changed for mineralized essence.

I wash your memory in the resemblance blue.

Participial belonging. Is funny.

Blue is not a real word, because it is not lapidary.

As we are.

I prefer the real words and their constant turning.

The ocean turns over and it is mistaken for a mind.

I find this funnier.

The dissonance of hunger ruins the piecedness of the landscape.

Ruins the piecedness of mind.

The teeth are mind and this is the problem.

Existence won't carry your hyphenates.

Spill the teeth in your palm again. The hunger says.

There is nothing mocking in teeth.

The essence of the tongue.

Does that. You do.

But our tongue is outside.

A shark swims inside a mother tongue.

Only too well.

The complete absence of a sense of debt.

The serrated edge of belonging.

Razors your semblance from the morning.

The unnecessary pieces of yourself you devour.

What I gather in my palm.

Has nothing to do with me.

The wonderful sense of belonging is returning.

But it is the domesticity of teeth.

I welcome your resemblance, which is a form of haunting.

But I pluck you from it.

The teeth of sharks are a rubbed out substrate of memory.

There is no merely.

There is quarry.

An ilk.

An ilk standing in a sodden field of sound.

The prey.

Sound of mind.

Shed of skin.