you were stealing me from myself br my mitochondria, a little under the name, br while I was unmoored, talking to a mirror br who did not recognize me, caked in heat and dust br touching my tissues and blood br under the ignited roof of the tower, br br walking with crutches to wipe the tears, br religion, open pyres, I am still stained br near a lantana thicket, amorous, talking br to death, pirates grabbing the winds, br migration of a whole waxed population br in black air br br stalkers have a corrugated mind and br serial killers a mournful voicebr br Satish Vermabr br