Let go the nightmares

and oneness,

and climb down the deep―

stairwell to find your image,

in seething rage of quiet water.

It was not very hot

to raise the fever of native pain

in your legs. The delicate

heights of golden peaks you

won, slumber― when you discover yourself.

Poem matters in black ink,

on white paper which bloats

in self praise. The world

trembles in earthquakes of sermons.

Fauna and flora are turning back.

Enough to snuf the guts.

You don't love the parting.