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.