Your ink falls, 
little blue bombs on white paper.  

A burst pen loses itself, swirls 
in its own confusion of clear plastic 
and stem.  

          I know the fine points 
of broken objects— 

how veins expand when cut, 
that even plastic cannot contain 
itself beyond its parameters, 

that even we are unstable, stirring 
in our casks of bone. 

          We nod and talk 
as if any moment our bodies 

will combust, burn down 
to the black cinders of our tongues.