Now I burn with the privacy of my own skin.
I place a bird on the verifiable, the slag-hap, the maybe this or that.

So, one day I become a gambling fermentation.
Pass me the vinegar. Ingest my ear. Bring me my blame.

Part of my scar is certainly something beautiful.
Part of us is certain, though maybe and might.

The ramp of prescription feathers proved irreplaceable.
We exchanged hands, even fingernails, and painted one another’s cheek with
a sad glance, with the winged features of our closed moths.

Learning to open our heart to the moon was a vast candle.
This burning. That. A periphery of stars.

Dictate me. Luna this cough.
Open wide the way.

Honestly, it hurt to hear such things.
We seemed to override the fragile motive of our mouths.

One by one, we burst onto the tree of our own tired birth.
It was like someone swinging the dark bark of an underwater lamp.
I told you, Go ahead, be social.
You had said, This, our breath, breathing us back, is only a symposium of the
solitude of our most whole.