has the twinkle ever
been for nothing
more than

to leave
a loving
artifact

to make
a deathless
hen,

whose faith outpaced
her season’s augury

this fruit is sticky
stretchy,
furious

its nectar possessed
of Lethean ambience

my arms are glittering
swans, my pillows
pur de lait, my eyes
are royal-blooded
blue navé, my dreams

are dialogues
of dolphins

how can she
believe the verbs
you writ, when all
you tender-left

were winterscape, or
sidereal tongue-
traps, of snowmen

that psychedelic night,
she sapped the wine
and stole the spade

howl-lit, she went
digging

in mud of your
decaying spring
for word-eaten
bodies

to meet
the gristled
marrow

to touch and leave
fingerprints
melting
on tongue

rose red grows
from a hollow bone

while moon-
shot belladonna
is kissing cousins

with bull-horned
hemlock, reckless
and honest

//