When they breathe,

they the lights

in their incandescence.

They show their gills, typing running fast,

and breathing underwater.

The thief,

that thief,

guided by that same incandescence,

instead by candles,

incensed and numb,

numb, but still, a thief.

Still being picked up by far away microphones;

picking , and poking.

Still running , stumbling feet crunching over broken glass and

river rocks, arms are full Marcus. Arms are FULL.

No idea what’s louder, or what’s more poetic,

what more could be , make me?

make me. A THief.