Tuesday, August 12, 2008

One of those poems

She glitters like disease
like harlequin eyes
like a volcano dance

She holds Africa like a slice
of apple at the back
of her bark covered throat

She keeps straw and orchids
by pillow so sleep is travel
and every morning is a violent un-burial

She is pancakes and sand,
a silent infection, the moon
as it splits the septic sky

She is quietly blurred,
a bloody Cinderella holding
apocalyptic peace in her
happenstance hands