i used to feed the fire melon rinds
& ask for a song in return.
the foxes would come then
with their flutes & their keyboards.
a forest is a place you always
return to. where the roots
carry secret promises & spent money
& soundless laughter. i go & finder an outlet
to plug a monster into. sawing down
a grandfather & using him to feed
the ravenous parts of myself.
masculine stones & feminine stones.
the foxes, not unlike a phoenix,
are prone to combustion. prone to lighting
matches & singing until there is nothing left.
lately i feel like there is always a cost
for revelry. but just for once i would like
to kiss a thumb print & have it not
turn into a labrinyth.
centaur in the cellar. the foxes
say they are not doing what they are doing.
knives in their teeth. knives in the monster.
the forest, shrinking to the size
of a pie tin. i want to escape
the knowledge of all i've had to do.
lighting another fire. eating the guts
of a watermelon & not sharing
a single bite.