full of crimson
not stark as a prison,
where gnarly limbs scratch
the frame of my house. Or stripped

as a ***** that's turned over
and again, so that its grooves
have worn thin. They see
a flower, not the stalk of

thorns. The sun dancing on
the sea, not the blackness
underneath. I dove into
where the sun doesn't

shine. I waltzed in a pyramid
of brine. I imploded like a
submarine, lit like a match
to a tank of gasoline.