It’s hot in this red room,
inside the beating heart of the ritual, explosive
now with duress, bleeding its stress

Ink

I am looking for a word from you.
I’ve combed the landscape of my body,
I’ve travelled its dark rivers.

Nel mezzo del cammin what one finds is beans
and wrinkled cabbage and an awful case
of ambling vacuity, an affliction resembling

It's the rhythm and small plosive bombs in the mouth,
on the lips of the whisperer (me) who would like
in the best of all possible worlds to rhyme

High above the congregation of the laminated waters,
muscular and clear, that deeply and to great

effect reverse themselves in diurnal, layered turnings,