I can envision cinders of me
that linger wherever I have been and am no longer.
Settled in locales turned urns
holding states, and semblances,
something suffocating.
By-products of self-actualisation,
frazzled relationships,
and cycles self-replicating.
Where I’d make like mist
seeping under the horizon
into the arms of strangers like me
who were all the wrong things
yet still were warm to the touch.
I can envision cinders of me
who’d write poems and watch porn and weep profusely
in hushed corners of places squirming with life.
Always hiding
on the edge of couches
and mulberry cloth stacks,
the mattresses on top of them that were always frameless.
Concerned over curses and cock,
the crude underworlds clawing out from behind my teeth and eyes
with stories of fire and darkness.
I can envision cinders of me
waxing poetic with percussion and
mugwort or sage and filled with crystalline blessings.
Pondering demons and
how big the fishes they fry really are with salted windowsills and oiled scalps.
Aromatics and big tinas and rice dishes,
a dream of worlds long since dead.
