You can smile for a minute, sure,
Let your eyes crinkle at the sides, somehow
Speaking for you, reassuring with teeth.
In the end, it's about the fingernails,
Not the teeth, clawing back from underground,
From under the water and soil, the mole hill
Stamped down by sheep and primitivity, the fear.
You're a chameleon, they say. Changing from anger
To laughter quicker than clothes, they say.
But don't forget to bear the pearly whites, to cope,
They say. Don't forget to clip the nails to the stub,
To watch the blood drip down the sides.
Does anyone understand language grows on the side
Of a hill? That it grows under the skin, behind
Gums and the white spots? When we speak,
We open the cords of the back throat, unleashing
The sheep to the field, left to the mercy of hooves.
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