What does the light ray feel
Falling to her death on
My skin?
When the end is near
She does not perceive darkness
Where she is, the dark is not.
When she is gone
She is cancerous trash
The heat is her child
And will move on
To other mothers
Maybe she feels what I do
When I close my eyes
Wilted.
It rains on desert,
Granola,
Landsscape.
The jagged rocks crusted
With love letters to Dante.
He had the levels of hell all wrong.
There is so much dancing,
But the music is atonal,
And pestilence bores holes through
The dancers’ feet.
Hell is a life if obligator dancing.
Beaches of lime and slow.
We are home to the most unpopular beer.
I have a lot to drink here
but eat slowly.
Threatening texture
Physical.
Justice is a poor best friend,
Sticking knives in me
Where I can see them.
I reach for the cookie
He slaps me gently
I smell the desiccated marsh
He holds my hand on rollercoasters.
It wouldn’t be fair
For me to die when I
Have been so innocuous
But the tide looked
Innocuous and the
Fish is dead.
I am not a reed in the marsh.
When he takes me home
He always takes the
Long route
Help the baby in cashmere
This is a heinous place
To be born.
I have been in the spider’s
Web a long time,
Most of me liquified.
Most.
She keeps a little of
Me alive
For amusement
There are bitter stones
Everywhere
With no water to
Wear them away
Find a garden somewhere
Lay him down beside the bees
Name him Adam.
Balloons murmur at Velvet’s party. So much soft rubbing in the dim light. Silks and their secretaries took the night off for this. Behold the lonely dark in the corner, desperate for touch.
Piquant wood shavings
build houses from one another.
Natural selection,
the choices of the man in the barn with his saw.
The light chooses not to touch those with old tongues any longer.
If I went to the light, I would find a locket of gold.
Choices are envious of boxes. To make a choice is to sew yourself to something that runs faster than you can.
When choices are all spooled out and the thread is cut, what remains is a saw and a veil of night.
Banished to the well, the little boat that steered itself.
No strength welcome here in the miserly home of wrens.
Shoe laces control a careful electricity.
Wrens like knives, ask toddlers to carry them.
Glad Gloria had the boat. Now she has her name changed. She will never be 3.
The wrens eat well, don’t share with one another.
My lips are freaks.
I am burlesque.
I am not a performer
What my figure is full of
Could add to addition.
Doors show more than windows
Depending on their angle.
Balloons murmur at Velvet’s party. So much soft rubbing in the dim light. Silks and their secretaries took the night off for this. Behold the lonely dark in the corner, desperate for touch.
Miniature Moon 