French Punch

Adam Tedesco

Always the same clutch
of bread feathers, wing,
water before crime
air in the structure of light
a feeling minus force
or equivalent aura
of body before violence

Maybe you lost
the threshold
the ability to feel
the inside joke of my tongue
beaked at and deboned

The fountain’s feet
have no memory
no way to count
for us the bleeding
things a day requires
be remembered

How many fingers
from a secret life
can your mouth hold
in the porcelain hum
of eveningness