what feverish
wounds wait
at this slippery
crossroad

how would
our scorched
hands hold
the days we
have lost

will we
write of rocks
raked by talons
until they cease
to be rocks

when earth
has hit sky
& returns
to be earth

at the feet
of shadows
that will never
again move
from their walls

my stomach
inverts in
yellow wheels
of revulsion

& i can already
see a puckered
hesitant mouth
in a white head

tremorous full
of excuses