(Box: the Box Brownie)
In the box brownie of your head, sits the viper of your envy
swallowing the heedlessness of the road.
In the caves of your mouth, prison guards
are melting the truth in the acid of speech.
Your paper horses are lost on the road of your desolate spirit,
and your wooden God has lied to you
when you finished using certainty.
You run away from the photographer of forgetfulness
fearing he would enter you in the machine of absence.
facing the deserted sea of your days.