Touch my curl,
the bronze wave
so far from any
ocean that it could
cut the wind
into simple coal,
allow the energy
to spill through me
& frighten
the craving men
enough that they
apologize
for the first creation,
the second creation,
too. So far from any
god, I wait for hell
to become real enough
that I can explain
this rotted lotus
of being to the fallen.
