long red hair – like an lava flow
becomes the warm insanity
of burning alive

my name?

I’m sorry, I forget the details,
you’ll have to ask me
later

when i can breathe.

reality reflects
through my spectacles
into the stony chambers
of my almost beating heart

my hands run
through the strands

could this be fabric?
is this me – woven
or braided – no
this is not me

my hair is gray
and white,

my name?

Perhaps another trip
up the Zambezi – to visit a crocodile
with my foot in his mouth?