and me, of the flower and the burn
she, a day lost breast inside a brown moons lung
young hands on old sticks
a pleasured curse. a night owl for my shrine;
a severed whim on my cursed carousel
a dry purse where joins language and a sea-beard
storks feet in a tresspass rush
coiling with the burning of my satin snake;
too dark the orange of her tails!
sliced in half the temper of her rusting trowel
her shelved hands for the treasures of my retreat
my sows blood from the milkmaid in my womb;
she is the distance of a crows arm
a black rose for my allotment weed
she is my sprouts eye from the cabin of my kale
sun-dried; my peach with a ladles claw;
nether deaf neither dumb nor blind
a percussion wind for the eardrums of my shins
drowning in my lake with the swans
where wanders the tremors of my white blood oil;
I am the pilgrim of her dove-tail prose reviews
a satanic verse for the still-born of her movement.
me, of the flower and the burn
she, a day lost breast inside a brown moons lung;