& the nozzle is mouth enough,
& the engine cuts like a fine blade
sharpening the redwoods
into a funeral of hands, grasping
& I have clipped my wings to shed
the season of you, its slow decay
to bone, a red apple whittled down
to its wick, the flame crushed to dust
between our names & the gas station
is a blinking white & the man
behind the counter wears his eyes
like two drains circling themselves
& because I am parched
for my own blood, I consider his hands
& the memories they could cleave,
I consider the familiar ruin of prayer
as midnight slow dances towards a thin sheet
of morning, consider emerging,
a small, red bird limping across the tar,
emptied of your ghost until
& again until
& again.