Searching for you last night in the hollow reamed-dream you made, I found a mirror. Behind it I made out your acquiescence. Red. Brown. Ash despair stained my tongue. Red. Brown. Muddy angst stuck to me like tar with very little tears to sweep your inept dance-spoors blotched upon all sandy plains. Frail-fevered god, should I save you? I thirst for your first crack. Seeping stale snot, rot, you heard me cry. Do you cry? Do I sing to you? In the wind, what do you sound like?

burning air spitting?

a thousand cracks of prayers?

steadfast pulsing shame?