THE SUNLIGHT boils beneath my lids.

From a nightingale engrossed in ash, from its black
musical entrails, a tempest rises. The cries descend to the ancient
cells, I behold living whips,

the beasts' unmoving stare, its icy needle in my heart.

All is an omen. The light is shadow's marrow: the insects
are going to die in the spark-plugs of dawn. This

is how meanings burn in me