she brought home snake beans
not wet anymore, you don't punch them with water
or mistake toddlers for grown men

or hurry from the ghost with the sparks of your
father's admonishment trailing at your feet,
what was through this then?

something was easy for ruin, the colour of
jets passing over fountainheads, rose
petaled, with thorns of fire, or crisp and
well?

is this door my perfume, letting me into your senses,
or am i leaning?

stationed to the safe-word you will never dare
to say. i am at the water hole

where tomorrow comes home to me
and i am the hungry war,