SUGAR HAS PERFECT TEETH

the amnesia of being present with a pastime as slow as loving her
with my own eyes, heavy as blankets skipping stones
and lost souls, meandering in the thicket of my thinning hair
fickle in the dark, like a novice. but born with two ghosts
to admire in a journal of my most recent decent-
into gladness.

sugar has perfect teeth,
and the moon, owls enough
for hunting 
over stars made of snow… 
and my lungs have forgotten their purpose
but my autopilot is addicted -
to heaving sunshine with thin air
when i gasp at her eyes…

with that
face.