But’s it’s all of them, all the words you say
Running through the infinite spaces there
Inside the brain, with micron-spans discharging.
Those words erupt like magma, not burning
But feeding a soul, serpentine with envy.
I am my own Iago, placing kerchiefs—
Fictions, corrosive as acid,
Black tar, pitch-thick and monstrous—
Along the vertebrae like spines that burn
At each kerchiefs unveiling; razors
Slash each rib, creating wounds subdermal
Until pierced. Then water flows Christ-like,
And the soul, love-sick, finds your words eternal.
The Grass is Always Greener 