The seaweed spilling from her eye
is a sign of great travail.
Our tired, tattered veil flutters in fog.
And it’s because of this we form a bog
filled with smart and flying things.
Bee stings on her lips, wrapped eagerly
around the blossom that is love.
So much depends
on how we comprehend the shadows
which surmount the white emptiness
we’ve long gazed at from a privileged distance,
and they gaze back, the shadows,
and beckon us, offering
the shattered beaks of vultures.
Around her, I created a culture of vice.
She’s icicles. And her fangs impress me nice.
Nowhere moves over the troubled mass
of leaves languishing in the yard.
The moonlight dripping
through the mist like lard.
We must press on into formlessness.
Be always on our guard.