death iii. (pyre)

which one of us chokes
on our own hot blood?
whose blood?
i fold you seven times, i think
i'm surprised when you don't snap
like a tiny wax candle

i'm here, my bad wax,
my bad statue-face--
you know, you do have
three front teeth i
should have answered
the final haunt: 
is anyone alive in that room?

is this blood anyone?
whose blood?
as instructed my reflection
escapes the window, i wax
i choke dreams, i
unfold you from the coffin lock

i choke times, i
am fighting to breathe
under the blood
of time. whose blood? i thought
you looked like butter
or maybe like a donkey.

now i lope
the hot streets, i beast
over blood i cannot answer
to, or for. i wax
letting away smoke
from tiny weeping fires