Since my ash has
blown in your mirror
I am warming up to your surrogacy.

Too much deep,
expansive cleavage. I am climbing

down a canyon.

The phoenix:
finds the water―
in your eyes.

Writes a funeral.

No punctuation, the
unwritten poet,
will not last the night.

I am spelling out
the grief of the lonely man on
the deserted road, talking
incoherently.