I pressed my face inward,
into a facsimile of dried cherry—
let it drift, flat and withered, into the other salamander dust.
I am not gone. My fingerprints left grooves in the metal wall
of your abhorred chest.
For you, I cut off my tongue and placed it
on the asphalt at the Texas poolside.
You didn’t want it, but you did, all the same.
You were lying flat. I watched, with precise incaution,
the loving snakes make taffy of your nomadic skin,
and wrap themselves inside.
You laughed at me: “something’s different” and smashed
your matchstick elbows across the concrete.
My appetite smallens under your watchful emptiness.
The energy in its never-destruction becomes
the heat storm in my heart and hands.
Nothing will come of nothing:
lightning is choked into silence by cold,