Eat the skin off your lips,
You bird starving in winter.
Pluck your hair, your skin, your nails,
Let nothing grow from the dirt of you,
Harvest time and time again,
Knees in the black earth,
Hands tearing up leaves,
Slash, slash, slash,
And forget to burn until the earth is infertile.

How long will you chase yourself around
With a raised broom in the tiny cavern of your skull?
When will your pitter-patter feet,
And swish-a-wash straws,
And bird heart,
And mouse voice
Fall to rest in a silent pile
In the middle of the floor?

Your bird heart and mouse voice
Are like Joan's lion ones,
Should you ever manage to fall in a pile,
They will still whine like coals in its center.
They will thump and sing and harmonize
The unkillable refrain of your panic:
SLASH, SLASH, SLASH,
And forget to burn.