To fall away flirting with the breeze
Is a memory of a brasserie in dead lust —
And the bald chaos of her navel
Explores the victory of ivory tongue,
Unsettled as Mississippi along its coast
In the summer of her iris muscled into pickle jar.
Houses are the persuasion of trees,
Stretched. Torn. Hanging —
Detention belongs to the trachea.
The punctured stitch of sin, her body,
Awake a growl of ghosts.
April is a falling thunder
Exploding two eyes puffed as toads.
Her man has her body —
A pelican thirst on the armpit of her blue moon
And a kingdom on half-eaten scar,
Born to a precarious generation of nakedness.
If you kill a man, you must kill his father too.