Tasha Fouts


It is this hammered mouth, this
slit of drool and dank,
this mold of pressed grooves, of
grime, of penny holes and screws.
This is the trumpeter’s mouth piece,
metal tonguing skin, the curve

of rim against nostril, the curve
of rim against teeth, this
curve of mind yelling, pieces
pilchering through rushes of dank.
It is not a love spike, but screws
that mouth me here, all full of

brambles and stick.  This is the of
that holds me on threaded curves,
on the ride of screws.
But is it all of this?
A pressed hum and a river dank?
No, it is love in pieces,

everything in pieces,
the trench that I lap of
copper, breaths, my dank,
the pitted veins I curve.
I resign to all of this.
The blare of a burning screw,

the slivers of that burning screw
the pieces and the pieces of pieces
of that and of this
of course, of course, of course, of
courses stripping about curves,
and tempers glorying the dank.

Bright nostrils of dank,
screeching songs of screws,
rumbles waking the curves.
Is this to be my piece?
two lines scrambled off;
a trumpet crying of this.


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