SINGING

I threw us through a bramble door

as proof: sentimental lyrics don’t bust

a martyr’s mettle anymore.

Murder a middle,

a terminal hell.

Hover at the entrance

of plausible mandarin limbo,

stunning in its breadth. Snow and steam.

My story earns me no money

so I told it in a fugue; passed months, mostly.

Poor lions wouldn’t listen, so leopards

carried me in their mouths.

In a reservoir—   In uranium May—   Never—

SPLINTERING:

Cursed.