Fingers like vines winding up the mass
Of skin and bone and fire
Pain, now. As well – and they press gently
Against the spot, between two ribs
I don’t inhale, it might be dangerous
The rain falls – but it never really does,
It is more like flying
Sucked from the humid air
Teardrops roll like marbles over my bare
Epidermis.
All that sound
Can you still hear it? I’ve gone deaf
The red wing hops as if he is deaf as well
I shout at him like the cars that no longer honk for me
On the busy road
To fly.
Let me tell you something: to be deaf, to be fire and pain,
it is not anything I am proud of. That
is why
I ask –
Take this.
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