As a tank, clarity is key,
but there’s no way to get full
on the other side, one yellow
knob sings against some wooden heart
leading to a brick wall.
Tiny doors, stretching toes against
a mountain pass. Too steep is
what they always told her,
but not today, at least, this is what
I heard once, but I don’t recall
if you were the one who told me first…
I don’t want to be the one to feed you
your own advice with the wax frozen
to the mantle, there’s nothing we
can scrape through to get at the core,
voodoo-man says I have no soul to trade.