While I couldn't talk, the dentist said, Life is too
stressful; we work ourselves too hard. He was yanking
on the pliers locked around my tooth, number eighteen,
cracked and dead, its crown (so gold) become its cross
because I grind in the night: It's stress, he says.

He hands the tooth to the assistant to save for me;
I picture myself wearing it on a chain around my neck.
We're too busy doing what? he asks, taking off his
    gloves.
Nothing that matters. I tell people, if they want
to stop grinding their teeth, they should drop out.

I have dropped. I have fallen. I have spit out the blood.
I can hear the minutes dropping, like teeth falling out,
like arms falling off, but also like snow dropping
down through the chimney onto the flames,
sizzling, disappearing, as water turns to air.

Blood turned into words. Life turned into turning.