The laughing place of a belly is fire
You touch the stove’s metal face, like it could cry.
Each numb thing sets the dirt to spikes and the sky asks its questions quietly.
Why are we not here now again, setting our number down and pulling the track
Lighting down from its station above us?
I take the bet on the last horse, that its face will remain imprinted
On the towel after it has risen, after the shot
And the curtain calling for this life.
One long way to burn and the emblem that makes it
Alright is a hook and a backslap – the buried parts of our chests
Carrying what resembles a fin or a fist in them.
An anthem yet to write and the locked screen signals
Safe distances, the gun again a speaker to star with running.