A Body That Is Entirely a Head

When flames fall on boughs
and become a bird,
its body folds from fever
into a giant, rounded head.
Molten eyes move, and lips
drags the ankles up
to a tongue that is entirely
made up of origami swan,
because everything is on
the verge of toppling over
this empire with a fatal wink.

A voice conches up around
the bucked teeth, until
the puss-filled syllables spill
down into the craters of
the crumpled-up stomach,
peg away on a pool of blood,
while the heart forgets how to
weep, the head grows a dream
so it can switch back and forth,
for when the body needs to
grind and squirt, resembling
an art complex, so that
the head is kind enough to say:
I miss my pretty body.