the fighter wraps his wrists
each tight wind of cloth
a means to focus his rage
down into the hammers
of his hands
he channels the acid
fermenting in his gut
back up into his mouth
where it turns into venom
swirling around the razors
that are his teeth
and his eyes are flames
heat without smoke
so hot that there
will never be ashes
Tag: fight
Poem 20160120
i can’t hear the wind
above the sound of your voice
as you speak
the words in my stomach
fight to be free
but inch like slugs
too slowly to make
a difference
too slowly to start
a sentence before
the sound of the wind
engulfs us
