Nine out of ten dentists dream

white armies of scrimshaw gods.

Their bent instruments doze

in snowy imperfection.

Is anything more divine

than bacteria building

cathedrals of forever?

Numbers unflower

in mountain tinctures

and stellar eulogies.

Nine out of ten dentists

dream their hygienist

who dream trains and stops

and flopping uvulas,

human lacuna, box of amnesia.

When she slides the second hand in

I feel almost complete

in my incompleteness.

Stars are born in nurseries

and die alone.

She inserts a sprinkler

and irrigates the sockets.

My tongue follows her latex digits.

Gasps are half swallowed words.

I blood my spit and down it swirls.

It goes unspoken,

the hygienist and I

will never be unhappy

together. In the mountains,

it's snowing.

Our bones are buried there.