Wisdom Teeth

Something beautiful bides its time
at the edges of your vocabulary.
You can’t know the volcanic poetry
the magma you keep out of reach
until the practiced ballet of speech –
with pirouettes of tongue and lip
drunken dancers who slur and slip
through barbaric oral mating rituals
like rutting pigs honking at each other
until by chance, by circumstance,
by sheer luck and happenstance,
leaving bloody gouges in the bit,
there are nuggets of gold in the shit.