Is it in my shell, or in my core?
Have I neglected to mention the rare
Barbecue in 1982? What’s wrong with me?
Even if I don’t speak of it, can’t you taste
The smoke in my throat, smell it on my lips?
It’s like a burning fire shut up in my bones.
And even when the sun sears for days,
And even when the breast of the moon
Leaves me lonely I can’t stop chewing
On the heft of it. Beside myself, –
On dirt roads, on top of silo barns,
Beside trickling brooks, in another place
Where rednecks huff on their harmonicas.
This heart is hot within me, –
[Fire from a different sun for Real Toads]