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 through
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