sentence raze so every cloud is an inarticulate assassin with a poppyseed stuck between its two front teeth, an interloper where two blotched bits of enamel meet, wedged in there so well that no thin thread of silk or wooden staff will displace it, and if every puddle i see is an unanswered prayer, i'll fall to my knees and lap at the faith of an unfamiliar precant, knowing what was pure in them is sure to turn toxic in me, hoping whatever doesn't kill me will make me more interesting at dinner parties; but what i've convinced myself is rain is only my bed being moved by my body — boxspring masquerading as skylight — and there's nothing to drink here but the shallow pool of water my mouth has already made. 220405 what's it to you? who go blather from