I want to die
in a place the yellow cannot follow.
Does the sun set
Or does it flee, balking at the brightness?
They say it is built from bricks and mortar, but
My own eyes say it is snot swinging from God’s tissue.
Dentists make a pilgrimage to its door, weeping,
Attempting to floss what can only be a giant, unbrushed tooth.
It stares down, a pustule bird
With an imminent peck headed my wormly way.
Molly Burns - poet 