The hand takes the time to warm the beetle
inside the carved wood.
There is no going back when
the candles are blown out.
When you read about the pollen of winter,
your tears are clowns.
There is barbed wire flying
across the fruit of laughter.
The hand becomes the time the beetle
consumes inside the carved wood.
There is a talent screaming inside
the layers of a borrowed onion.
No one cares about this
and will denounce what is being said.
There are times when a door made of lilies
bleeds a thousand miles from home.
The hand trembles the time it takes
to warm the moving beetle.
There is a blind apricot chasing
the diameter of a careful fingerprint.
The hand digs out the beetle
from the wood.
There is an identical image
answering for the second time.
When you strike the vowel
and travel beyond a mongrel dog’s ear,
there is a tiny chalice of blood
blessing you with a borrowed kiss.
The hand is the warm beetle
rising out of the carved wood.
There are a few seconds
when the beetle tastes good.