a difficult thing, without the language of it
don't recall asking how.
how to pour petrol down Euterpe's blouse and burn her into lively action again.

In measured detachment: 1 cup.  Precision poured
to the exact lip, meniscus perched.

Inaction, hunch: the body is a dim-lit catalogue of habitual hurts
admitting through obfuscation
casting nets to lure other fishermen.
learning the stars with private constellations

delete this poem.  fill it up with voids
capture and suture lack
stitch some new whole and when it is voided to perfection

this will be a poem symptomatic of
acne scars and ringworm foot and made, a little, of
pus weeping from a day old burn

Remember to put her out.  Remember water will catch the fiery slick
and spread it