time is a box of fire.
you can't remember the solitude
of your first word
but your last one is just as forgettable,
it gives me pause to expand.
to drum the skin of our neutered womb.
it brings 'round the impeachable sun
that desperately needs to set
and clings to features in the landscape
that have no idea who you are.

time is a box of fire.... where we burn our poppies.
we leap to pavilions of lost history
and gorge ourselves on brevity
with thick tongues fluent in stuttering.
everything. Everything burns.
and the sum of any choice is a beautiful girl
that can't understand why your flames are frozen
nor how icebergs insist you won't
be missed
adrift.