Nervous Habit

Have I   told you   the  one   about  the  river.

The river   that runs     faster than         I can.

I would tell you about  splattering,  dripping

unnoticed,       drooling                      quietly

swallowed   thoughts into  pools,            icy

but  never  frozen,                  surface tension

you      never knew existed. I would confess

to  you  it’s      easier            to  numb

wading ankles, rip off parts shivering

heaviness,         bite stumps           into brittle

sieve dams, than skim through slits, forced

open with serrated gasping breath. I would

remind you      water  does not        dispense

like      kisses  and     petals,       moving on

to the next for more, it does not leave damage          

stagnant and arid    like wind.

I would teach you everything cold blood displaces 

a closed hand   will grasp, leaking

thick,   well-slicked      in joy’s    smooth oil,

whistling crass persist             tones,   knotted

and      coiled        brass         French     horn

in  haunting  tarnish.      Would you    tell me

fingernails       exist    for       reasons other

than       chewing.         Would I          tell you

I have               never                 known them.