Not the crooked mouth

of anesthetic that I took

or the hills climbing

that are sexed and bulbous

or the hallowed shacks of music

where I shook my bones

and ascended in a pale light

only the solitary benches

oozing wax at dusk

and pools of engine water

where I make my way

only the crumpled longing

salvaged by the blood

that goes in flame above

and the water of speech that stays

quiet on the tongue.