The temperature
of wherever I
am becomes my
mood. My gold
eyes come from
Earth's first fires.
I taste air with
my tongue,
unhinge my jaws,
and swallow
something to
kill hunger.
Something live.
It dies inside
me squirming.
I coil in cold,
lengthen in
heat, walk
with my belly,
always watching
for hawks. I'm
nothing like you
think I am. I'm
not your Garden
Tempter: that's
your dream. I
keep a pale blue
gem in the middle
of my mind.
hans ostrom 2020
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