Maude Abrantes

/ /

There is a flame behind my eyes,
a fire to twist
a first, or final, furling glance
of half-mast twins,

alone, or bound, or anywhere.
If one should torch
a lamp to catch me unawares
they’ll see a hunch,

a set of spine I use to scurry
needless needs.
Nothing else is left to hurry,
or try to lead,

the artist who came too late to know
the disaster
between the spark that failed to show
and never after.