the fire 

never ceases, in

candescent in

humanity, a

heart only

as heartless

as the ideology

circulating

each valve. i

once clapped

in church, half

heartedly. voice

lessly i sang, lip

synching 

marching

to zion. even then 

i knew this

was a charade

i could play

to keep 

my self 

hidden. tungsten 

or wolfram 

& used to make 

bullets & missiles

& filaments

in light bulbs

has the highest

melting point

of any element.

this bone

cold no

vember 

light. this

lamp. this

dream of

the pearl

in my 

body &

to undertake

each day

a vigilance

—attend, tend

attention. jakob 

in brooklyn

with his

lungs filling

with fluid. an

overworked heart.

the tissue no 

longer supple,

marked by 

scarring. a hard

particle

enters the

oyster

which coats

it with 

a mixture 

of aragonite

& conchiolin, the 

same materials

that make up

its luminous shell. 

light flickers

on my skin. how 

many bullets

in this moment

are in the air, 

bombs. what 

is soft, what 

yields, what

flowers, wildly

what is

open, pores

forced to

widen to

a word that

too disturbingly

easily holds

everyone

killed. no

the light lining

the inner shell

iridescent

like the pearl

it produces. it’s

a myth that 

a pearl forms

around a grain

of sand. at 

the center 

of every 

pearl: a

parasite. 

at night i

wake &

in the silence 

hear the 

intermittent 

whoosh 

of blood 

in my brain. the

light bulb

flickers. to sleep

i leave it on

so that the 

smallest dream 

may form—so.

that. this para 

site. this poem. so

may they

more radiantly 

refuse harvest.