Accumulated In Transit

NAIVE YEARS

There’s a lick of you in every tooth.
There’s a part of me that forgets truth.
There’s a hard sell for your patron mouth.
There’s a pleasant curse from leaving doubt.

There’s a place where we can clean a lie.

There’s a peasant’s cause where you hide need.
There’s a small splice from my hand’s belief.
There’s a fient of you once declared dear.
There’s a blur inside the naive years.