al dente

This poem itches me
with the grit of mint leaves
to the tooth
a prickle like the tag of my collar
rubbing,
             rubbing
a fundus
twitch finger
bud of fetus
half bite, half saffron thread tickle

a sky's bemused shout
from a forgotten open door
somewhere behind me and coiled above
a ceaseless boom only I can hear

Within, I wait
for a time more congenial
As I wait for the myrtles,
their magenta lava seething
captive still in trunks
twisted like horn

I wait,
my seventh pass round
these duties
almost done, nearly done
though my hand wonders
                          dumb  
heavy with its chore
as a tiny insect
prisoner
in the amber
of my ring
writhes
comes to life
                         trembles.

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