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The spirit is invisible to the eye,

like a sensitive onlooker

riding a gradient transparent

literature horse

through a sunset of barely

discernable light,

that bolts into slower,

purer, sightlier,

buzzing prongs

throbbing

to unload the long-legged

single fading note of an animal,

deaf as a beetle.

Instead,

it is a voice that I see;

the voice that spells out

what we all want other people to want,

how we want certain events to

occur in our own limbs

which may or may not hinder us

like covering a lot of ground in one day

that we are so tired,

so tired that there is city-gunk

upon our compositions;

our “face paint”

for “human approval,”

the fire in our eyes,

in our hearts

where the flames need splashing.