I know these blocks of writing are flammable.
If I have no other choice but to write,
Where can I go but into house fires?
What can I emerge with, appearing from the smoke,
Or the wallet you gave me,
One flippant poem tucked behind points cards.
I open and close the wallet you gave me.
There are no possibilities,
Say when once I woke up on a school holiday morning,
And nobody else was in,
And plans stretched out over parks,
Into the back gardens of girls.
Whether or not I buy drink,
Slither. Shed skin. Slither along the same
Entries, you do, without penetrating.