a fall, a roll
the effort is apparent, but
not enough
the hidden layers of flesh squint against the sun
tears of blood run through the salt and grit
the concoction boils, sharper, hotter
thick and black like
coffee
left out too long
the residue beneath the pot pressed into the plate
emits an odor, a dying cry
steam twists and flicks
as if in flight from the tar pit below
fire pushes past lips
bitter embers, ash and
smoke
a thousand thorns resisting descent
convicts digging through the walls of their pink prison
fangs assault when the last torch holding them at bay
leaves in favor of its original owner
the stranger takes a drag and nods
the nod is returned
the silence is pristine
~ pleasure
~
