A poem is running around with a screwdriver stabbing people, poking holes in throats, as if people could ever be trees filled with sap. And the poem is sitting under a spigot, the one shoved into the trunk, and its mouth is open, tongue out, as if drinking blood could ever be the same as licking syrup off a fork. And the poem is caught stabbing an esophagus. It punctures, is punctured, so easily. So am I, when my dead mother calls, sounding like I am a liar. Everything tastes of iron. All of the pennies in my pockets are the same old, same old, same color of uvula, old bile.