tres chic

you think it’s

tres chic

 

to smash moonlight

on my garden

 

your fragments

spear dark

 

then at dawn your incendiary

song

 

burnishes

zephrys that glide

 

your

vaginal oracle

 

 

extraordinary,

blood

 

when you hear it

coursing

 

when you see it

seeping

 

into the ground

your heart

 

empty

as if

 

it would

squeeze dry air

 

 

then this stop

motion rodeo

 

jerks into life

and your bull

 

brahman

is over the moon again