In the middle of the night,
a cloud formed

a storm inside my face. Garbage gathered
in the storm,

in the eye-ash. Nothing
was wasted, the waste was covered over

by ideas. At the very center
of the storm,

the sky was so blue you could hold it
in your hand and throw it

like a bomb. For years I lived
this way: with words

that had to do with carrion.
I have learned to cast

away my enemies. I have lit
their insides clean.