Mist, the next morning,

quenches my hot, black ashes.

I’d announced, “I quit.”

I catch my echo.

It cries above the tree frogs.

Again, it runs off.

They graffitied it

with two quiet ellipses

looking after me.

A sweet lemon drop
can make my raw tongue retract.
I don’t taste acid.

Anonymity
the poem’s essence slashes;
the Te is to cut.