Upon my brittle lens

and gallows

grows a liquid form,

candle-like,

breathing flames in and out

into a sun-scald croon.

 

Below its puckered lips,

I dance:

foot one foot

punctured

upon its puckered lips.

And I dig pores

and sly burrows

stuffed with ashlar:

blazing capstone

of truth and wonder.

 

Within its pores I reach within

depress my pulsing veins:

the wires

that connect my thoughts

to the brinks of Io.

 

Along the planes of the roaming river floor, 

I retreat my hands

and place them

against the mesh layer

of stones

lined by pillars 

and ream-back lungs

 

and a single yearning heart:

 

Holding pools of blood

as to neglect the warmth

that strays 

from billowing wax

 

dripping off my fingers

scarring the page upon which 

I devote my unceasing passions:

my twisted tongue

the carbon-granite

that glyphs my words,

fluid,

distanced of oblivion's tender,

thoughtless embrace.