those hamstrings have seen enough arias
to spring at any moment -
that jumping for a reason.
could be made futile
with a lingering scent of
try again’...

that’s when you sleep.outside
without a torch on your tongue
to scorch the hubris of talking.
nothing to verify by fire
only the ashes in your
mouth.

with nothing to speak of you drone into virtual kismet,
pandering for Mandalas
on the east side of a red herring cannery, but docile -
like a red fern-wolf’s bane clawing at black holes
in broad daylight.
velocity unknown… but by all accounts, a frenzy.
with nothing to clarify by desire
only massless, heavy -
things.