Saturday, February 7, 2015


O most laudable, most gracious
Blue-black nakedness
Arching above me,
The crescent you cue on this lip!
I am not her—
The flaxen-haired virgin
They erected, in gold gauntlets armed,
Who can spell your thousand names
With her white, dry tongue.
On my lips still are her kisses.
When I speak, I speak
Of her black-furred virginity.
Do you hear me O god-father,
Or her? Or her?
Do these bucktooth-marred
Python-cables hiss your voice?
Tell me it is you the fat cloud
I can haul to marry,
So finally I could walk the
White-eyed village to its death.
Then all by ourselves we
Shall be enough.

All by ourselves
Shall be enough.

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