Squalor
but I've been living here for quite some time
with soot between my toes from whence I dance on flames
and crush coals to squeeze out black oily nuggets
with which I kneel in the dust and carve your feature
in black
and I'm here amongst the dried reeds
a bed of moss and leaves
surrounding a pit and ceiling that opens up to the air
my only possessions are many whites sheets of paper
and over and over I smudge your hallmark onto their coats
covering them whole with the ides of yours
in a matchbox, thatched box, in the middle of the ruin
where I spend myself
scratching the world around with pictures of your teeth
your eyes, ears, and cheek bones
and I don't eat
and I rarely sleep
and I feed my fires with your face
s. sparling
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