this is not spread out on my skin
this is a foreign object in my house this
is not idle perplexuation this is

stomping grounds metal clinging
clans this is not idolatry this is
not the truth but i but us this is hurricane
horizontal but i but us we are quite
a bit but i but us

something so bright and supernova in
you i must bury my snout in

clamouring for hyperreality like a
shield like a mirror i hold out to
everyone in which i see myself so that i no
longer have to be there
can transgress as an entire cloak-from

when did the smoke leave your palms