[a word for sadness that dwells in the small of the back]

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stuck in the moonstruck knot of my lower lumbar.

behold how much wood is kindled —

hard-pressed to diamond but, more likely, coal.

by how small a fire —

whenever, acrid, Mercury’s retrograde aftertaste drips down the back of the throat.

and the tongue is a fire —

not by bread’s breaking of.

malum the fruit, but not an apple.

— shriveled figs look like I don’t know what —

hearts can be eaten, but not alone.