Your tongue flames, how they singe
the edges of this papyrus scrap
I use as a symbol for…
What was it again?
Clearly nothing of vast importance.
Not nearly as important as this
room full of glass trinkets.
Sometimes, the significance sends
my crotch a-tingling. A spurt of cold
sends the roof shingles shuttling
into a nebulous something, and
it’s possibly your field of vision,
though more likely the open mouth
of some dark deity
they worshipped in pagan times,
one they sacrificed children to.
I lived through those pagan times
as a purveyor of robes and baubles.
I don’t miss it, but the sky at least
was bluer, the air at least
was dewier and head lice
were all the rage…