When seasons are
In the midst of change,
The poet-heart responds
With midnight after midnight
Of poorly-timed accounting-for.

My shivering molecules
Shift their chemical composition,
Until my whole self
Becomes more hope
Than blood & water.

I am forever
Far too inherent,
Explicit, and
To be quieted, cased, tossed.

I am reminded that
I know better, yet
Still I act as if any other creature
Is worth this ‘becoming’ more
Than my own flammable heart.


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