Whine to water.
Your serpent in the boiling teakettle, sulfurous,
Plunge dimes and quarters into lucky altars,
The sound of your dead mother’s voice need not be mellifluous.
Agony in a cage for Ramadan days,
All places are raised with the capacity for chan— refrain.
Revelation’s buried in the spine of your ouroboros,
Council with a skeleton decanter made from your abysses,
The epicenter of a gunshot wound must be made from your most near kisses.