It's the not-seeing through hot eyes.
It's an August large cloud that dries bitter-white,
Heavily, in the cheeks.
If I look only to the sky
I can clear my sight along with it.
My dark woozy shadow scuttles beneath the skin
And splits, thick, from my sugary throat
(The warmth, the silk, and ice-cream)
And lays still, holding onto swollen ankles.
Off I say, off. I enjoy being unforgiving
Because I’m hungry for something
I'm all slippery skin, ballooning eyes,
Murmuring mmmm yellow.
I turn to blank to white. A skeleton
Presses up against me, bony and hard,
Questioning me for what I have done.
It’s the spatter of rain, the old sick
Man outside. It’s the heat
That snakes into me and murmurs