the curl turns, the whey curdles,
in a whip
biking over the hurdles
brief- a blip
jump skipped hop
the burnt hair
diluted in pot
tinges the air
and so the stick burns, to the wire,
dismantled, unwound smoke spirals,
heavy with musk- the scent of lament.
guitar tendrils, twisted tendons,
carpal tunnel bump swelling at
that junction of my wrist, before, i’ve said this-
that if you acquit, it does not fit,
the rhymes dissipate in the thick of it.