at the edge of the sun;
it blisters skin, burns eyelashes.
desires often make more
from the suffering….
the people will always
re-run movies
moving, leaving,
it’s gone again
as soon as I loved it
the fires are always set in winter
because the sun is too rare;
they never burn as hot
and always disappoint:
cold marble, taped nipples,
the white skin glows
too bright for my shame.
say things about it;
mouth words and make signs;
still winter will not compromise
and those legs feel foreign
to walk on, stand on, lean on
lay with the sticks and thorns
so you remember what it was
when you were alive,
and the sun warmed my heart,
that it felt like home.
screaming at low volumes
