WHITE HAIR

wasn't it just a february
it never hurts

to try
understand what the hell a man is

can only be a hellish whip
snapping at

cattle-backs
and sharpen your sunken shouts

on changing
on the decay of your living

the smell of cooking fat
my arm

is on the sun
but i can not scream from the searing

my everythings
have combusted

into the darkest ash
and even that
is burning.