Here is my poem from Mid-American Review, Vol. XXV, Number 2

What Do We Know?

That the water has been here
longer than I have, if only
by just minutes and miles.

Some words, when spelled
correctly, still look wrong
and I sweat thinking of them.

She has no intention of leaving
me here, nor I her, yet I still
love the smell of dusty pages.

The needle will hurt, no
matter how small the pinch
or large the obvious need.

I can’t change her answers,
I don’t want to change them,
but it would be nice if she did.

The pages really need to line
up, otherwise they take on the
appearance of broken teeth.

I have broken four teeth, one
of them twice, but the second
time it wasn’t a real tooth.

I broke my arm once, but
both bones in many different
places, so that may count twice.