I judge from my Geography.

Stranded, victim to the sound

Of thoughts in liberated pressure.

Wine-infested blood waves,

Alien to the shore of sunny moon,

Incarcerated from light under a claustrophobic

Window shield of contemplation.

The eruption of the powers,

In truth mutedly bubbling—

And inside my Volcano

Of importunate remembrances and

Hateful longing,

I swing the gavel of the world’s fire

And burn it into paper.