Vainglory

"My heart has become like wax, melting within my belly."
                                                       -Psalms, 22:14


I think I like living here.
Disquieting notion
that what follows
may be descent
of story, evolutionary
dip, a camp mistake
pitched among thirsty
reeds.

Ambrosia of friendly
fluid flows through
veins with cheek-to-cheek
agency, shadows
embrace in the wind-lit
alcove of a melting
incident.

Tread intentionally.
This material cycle
of wants bending
at the needs, never
desirous of first aid
first, comfortably slips
into another last resort.
Topology of an answer:
dips and bends, rust
and ruse, yet I skip
with clueless bliss,
welcoming songs
with nothing for me.