With a sieve in her temple
snugly seated in crook of
cactus arm, her green rubber
skin is neatly parted by
sleekest blade of rapier
for the exorbitant display and
subsequent collection of
pulp glistening like coral
She is contained in clouds
smeared dirty by a racing
breeze and swirling hips.
This day may never end, an
era of conjoined
tractor afternoons and
dawns swooping crazed like
bats under the bridge
of an undersatisfied soul.
And now we have glossed over
the prickliest of spines
genetically fated to puncture
your olive skin and mine
waxen and vegetative.
I am engorged on the juice of
my forefathers, tuning out the
snarl of cicadas, the
whitest that noise can offer
yelping at the cumuli for
relief
The needles click, conversationally
knitting a garment of faith
burrowing like a microscopic weasel
slurping pureed flesh, organizing on the
platform or assumption that
hibernation will be permitted to continue
until we reach a streetlamp and
The peeled
The pink
The most backward crashing gate
The official departure of heat’s opposition
28 June 2009
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