Then


you must move


the magnifying glass up and down


to catch light by


the tail of


its last consonant,

 

you must snap


the word in two,


rub letters together until tiny ants


begin to dance.

 

Now

the steam room is

steaming


and I can’t tell if heat means

redundancy or

the broken exhaust of


my escape mechanism,

 

which is to sing,


crawl over, digging knees into, skin already burned by

hands I know too well.

 

Always

fire

happens

only

to someone else.