through many drives go the tiny fires set

each is the dig: where our shovels rest
will resurface truth. our version of it.

inside play the remnants
of aspirin to oil our brains
thin our bloods, keep our bodies cast.

as actors we may conquer precious words,
conceive of tongues, wail of moan and glory,
give our narrative on lust and loss, of morality

when man and animal are no longer
a construct of distinction

so the falling of the material empire
is an unearthing of our most honest desires
where the answer runs clear:

to be swallowed whole
by every mouth of human passion,
we must first tragically fail
at being human.