we are in a land of stately pinks erupting pyroclastic, the stateless continent of a sooty god. but we, ourselves, are born of the steam: flame meeting surf, a violent expansion rather than a subtle extinguishment.

you are sitting at a piano, poor posture and all, playing a monochromatic nocturne. you chortle because whoever would put a piano next to a bathroom. you close the lid, and set the wood alight. the strings start to snap.

our skin sings for its supper. there are many mouths to be fed and i have never hosted a banquet. you tell me that there is a campfire on the riverbank, and there are many fish to cut, scale, and cook.

i am in the kitchen making you breakfast and i am also in the store buying sorbet on the hottest day of the year. we are in the jungle, again. you are busy making ice from fire and all i can dream of is freezing to death.

you sing a refrain: going anywhere but where we are. you say: play whatever pleases us as long as we can. hammers fall into each other and i cannot sing along. the stove clacks as the kettle intones that it’s the end of the shift.

the keys melt into each other. the river is dirty and you want to push the piano in it. it starts collapsing. my breast fills with a chorus. i grab matches, a canteen, and fifty dollars. the rime around me breaks in the sticky air.