Some stars you can see even during a morning sky,
although I guess those are planets as well.
I indulge a need to compile songs essay-like
for you. Layers of tone say more than all the reasons
I could name for you. How prison-like this form—
all tissue and organ-bound
ceaselessly aspiring for more
celestial routines. Contortionist dust.
Nothing grows until there’s a crack and a breaking of some kind.
Eggs and earth crust show us. My liver & lungs are marked
with common pottery motifs. Cave paintings on my stomach
walls will be beautiful stretched over a cannibal’s drum someday.
You may wonder about favorite pastimes in the arctic. As I witness
the body dissolve
as I become a chieftainess
smoking a cornhusk pipe
with tattooed lips deep in velvet
contemplation.
Her hands deserve
a machete
and your eyes.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment