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.