if you were a poem, i'd be a grape leaf

if you were a poem, i’d be a grape leaf;
cold and raw like the back of my throat.

vinegar lips and honey,
pulled branch and soft wind.
(october in a small town)

placid: the bread that’s in the oven is the only thing that’s warm.

let it sit because hot teeth are sour, but don’t do anything else.
you don’t have to grieve over the moon anymore, it’s still there.
just tired.