my heart was a brass bell:
frozen,
staid,
caught between two
hungers

like my waft between a hell
I could only dream of–
sketch on marker web;
write the titles
in my thrumming
patient way,
my hum,
my black belt bullet
of song rising with summer
or a hell stitched in
spine ready to
synthesize in
crescendo.

I would pluck at my
backbone to charm her
into weave, into
conjure   her dischordant euphony
that produced a mild shock
of light to remind me
I contain some very black
nights but a
torch lodged deep in
coccyx, and
courage.

will like the hunt
to find it.

“packs”

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