[You'll taste the poison when they / place the apple on your tongue— / tumbling through white noise with all that / deficit clogging your swollen veins / dreaming of matted tar roads / in the glint of a silver moon / drinking the water as it / flushes down the drain on some / sob-fuelled, god-doomed / Tuesday at the curb café.]

[though i cut my hair / like the god that once sought you / i must lay you on the pyre / just like any other mortal.]