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
I swing the gavel of the world’s fire
And burn it into paper.