Running through the center of the sun is hot
my feet feel like asphalt and the tips of cigars
My heart has burnt a long time ago
a candle wick dipped in wax
who is your love for, you may ask?
Surely the armor blackened by blacksmiths
and the swords molten and then sharpened know
Surely the white dress of Ophelia has gotten
dirty in the snow
Hawks and hippos both subdue
one to the sky the other to the pond
from high to low my chakras bend
not knowing like a blind man
bending down
over the table
about to eat.