that So Cal
Boiling point or melting point.
Makes the same stain
when your feelings are a cesspool whirling in your stomach.
Taste into ash, into a crawl to finish the last bite.
Limbs like crawling magma, murder in your veins and you tremble
And trying to out-echo the pounding on your heart,
ignoring the pulsations, the vibrations, the same thought
as a pot and lid under boil.
Why does the mind freeze and twist in a cold snap of fury, the body thawed and a winded, coiled, spring.
Venom and fangs and a lash so frostbitten.
I’m fishing and the bait is gone and the hook is bent and the rod is straight
the ice cracked the winter long the seat gone and my sky is free free free.