You cultivate this heartburn as if you

know you are the cause.

Your notebook body dramatized

in the paleness—vapors separating—

root colored, like ginger.

I sink into this mudded

baptism—like baby snakes—

materializing before white.

It is eternal failing and I am consumed.

This mediocre vision feels like

arms will explode, as though I am

parasite bones, infected superstition.


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