and here I am again
crouched in black
as angry as a Sunday to an owl.
less easy on the eye, perhaps
green matter on the soft side of my knees
passing skull and wishbone
on the long haul of a scream.
bequeathed at birth
the last remains
of Satan in a fragile state of mind.
now easy lies the crown
two rows back from laughter
diluted with the water of inane;
the muscles of my jaw
as rigid as a door
holding tight my menopausal blood.
no flood should I encounter
here among the strangers in my den;
now catalyst devoid of such debate
as broad as willow
heavier than fog.
a sibling from the wrong side of the womb.
apostle white of dour consequence
a cameo in the leather of a fly
neatly packed with a postage stamp attire;