Hands on the stove

I fly across the plain

Sun,

Dives into the memory

The entry of which

Is but a bleeding wound.

Shines,

With all power

With all force

With His Will

Bleeding,

The atoms clash

Bounce into a deserted shelf

Ret on the vast field

Of Mississippi

I bite the hands that feeds me

So that one day,

It’ll let me starve.