Overflowing with wreaths of smoke
I am a heated pot, gurgling, impatient.
The words I love, the gift that I
do not own but borrow though the timing
does not often suit me.
Some things must be done
and no amount of even ifs will steady
the hand once the need strips
those skulking sheets their innocence.
I am uncommon, a candle
burning in its own juices,
once untenanted, I burn,
spectral and appetent.
The things I know shame me.
My great and ghastly divots,
my scars wet as the day
they were cast. I am pitiful,
miserable, I bereave myself,
offal cast as pearls, heart
a stalk of weather-hardened barely.