Your back curves like a creeping vine,
With the answers in the fluid in the stem of the spine,
In the black-coffee bowl of your eye,
Why do you overestimate the size of the lie?
The dangers of your rising sign,
But I swear
I'd like to drink the fuel straight from your lighter
It's all inside the wrist,
It's all inside the way you time it
I resent the way you make me like myself
My nerves jump like a boiling pan,
Like a skillet full of oil spits rattling on the burner,
When I stumble onto the thought
Of the match you lit and dropped
And set the dial to slow yearn
Can I spell it out?
Should I spell it out?