The air is hot--
fermented hot--like chiles
soaked through.
Take a bite and melt
down like butter--
fusion seems less cruel
in cooking.
Laser fingers prodding like children
yearning for the salted snail
to foam,
Then iron daggers brazing
thews--dissimulate--
Hide--
beneath the brown gaze
of towering, sweating antiques.
The air packs on
more hot saddlebags.
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