Waiting for the Burn

I have new eyes for the guise of
your rising sun and
feet soaked
with the white blood
of winter
and nothing in me
telling me
to go home
without this

I have a new song for an ear that's
yet to hear one note.
choking
on a new voice is the feeling
of hot soup
in the back of my throat
or the ice-cold dive
into the deep end of July