They are cornfield soil, harrowed in long rows, Kernels lined up against the eater's lips, Ones and groups disappearing in gulps on their trips Down the gullet where the future goes; no one knows Where they'd grow if not harvested for food. Shark teeth, they have always been replaced With greasy ease by hinder rows spaced In close ranks. Their generations issued Forth from the eater's mouth at the end Of their useful days. They litter the ocean floor Like what's left from a jack-in-the pulpit bloom Before summer even gets here. They make us room. I watch those before march through that door, The lips that swallow whole and never rend.