turn back, you're a lot warmer
than a flame, than the embers
of December, than a frame
buckled down with your
sweat.

you complete crop circles
hidden deep inside a turtles shell
reaching out with show and tell
iterating 'what the hell' occurred
oh sir, you sit alone

hyphenated, overrated, we placated
the wait within watered down bread
while in your head you said:

"we are creatures of the tongue
reading sermons on the mount
we are creatures of the lung,
without this air we cannot shout
at windows, trying to find the right
tone to crack
the glass
during mass."