Mouth sores

My wounds

open mouths

that drool red

wine drunk

from a night

when bottles become

telescopes to look

onto the dark sky,

a mouth onto itself,

with teeth beaming

and a tongue that

lick oceans into

submission, pulsing

back to me

while my mouth sores

become infected, cavities

that have no fill, only

healing and time to

see if the night

still smiles when

there are no

stars out.