The road curls into
a ring I wear on my finger.
The humid spring air squeezes through
my open window,
Somewhere out there I am a baby
Writing great epistolaries in brooding vomit.
In the center of a field,
my senses plundered
by clouds of venom
I can’t go back to the day I left
My universe of birth
and I don’t want to.
I rinsed the dust of it from my hair.
I glow pure yellow into the waking calendar,
designing my own destruction from