He has small wounds for eyes and sits, located at the back of his chair,
hunched over in the hood of his black sweater,
staring into the coldness of the black stove.
He thinks of gas slithering into his brain.
The birds sing like seething.
He inhales smoke from his head by covering his ears and his mouth and his nose.
He believes he is a burnt up end
of something black.
He feels ashes rolling off his shoulders.
He thinks he’s a pile on the floor, spreading out.