it's not that i mumble, i am naturally unclear

a sly smile, every word a curtain,
         my room an obstacle course; something
yellowed and desperate, tuberculosis,
you push through the drapes and kiss the cankerous palm.

yes we move, we tumble,
           leaves fall off,
               wing parts rattle off the aircraft,
foreheads bruise and mutilated flesh is torn

but when i rise from the teeth marks on linoleum,
there is something indestructible:

a steady fire
a good pulse
gratitude.