My larynx exhales chocolate that blots the future.
You could be this whole aluminum world, I say,
with melting palms that could cook a god like poultry.
An artificial shine in divine eyes attracts the crows,
kills them as they swallow trash. You could glow, I say,
tributes erected that scream in flapping tongues
like candy wrappers; you could grow, I say,
and pluck the universe as your roost.
My throat coughs jasmine incense. We die explaining
to our deities that jasmines could represent hope
in cultures not our own. I could grow myself,
I say, but others will have to explore jasmines
in my place, in meanings not my own.
I speak chocolate where others forget the roasted
lust for food. The taste that the future is splotched.