i’ve heard of angels snaking down and up
the ladder of your lust, like cats on herbs.

smudged pawprints on faces of hierophant
or lovers or tower or devil or —

free spirit stumbles on the way, or trips
it upside-down, or stops to make a Friend.

a clock never belonged to her, the fool
is led by blooming tendrils of ylang ylang.

each word escapes the putri, playing prince
of winding wildernesses in beeswax.

tracing a comedy of errors, miss —
fit daughter of the whore of Babylon!

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