stacked to a pire and set to flames.
The taste of Massachusetts. Its toxins. Give me
the pricks of your driftwood. Burn me steady
until I slough. It is a leather skin. It is a parchment you
can char. I asked if this is what you Massachusetts
should be: the thing that blazes, smokes stars, wrestles
with the innocence of its sweat, the wetness
that burns me. What can I do friend. Can I drown
in you. Can I drown from away. Must the burn complete.
There was a sun I thought to shine under. Believe
I am the only one with words. Believe when light casts
Yes this is a burn. Yes the daylight burns me.
Massachusetts my will is to burn us the sky.
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