a long walk
(her winter home)
they creep from the trees and cascade to
catch the glitter-dew we disturb
they glide and slither in a fervous murmuration
furious and aroused at our
loving invasion. She weeps, too,
free in Kunlun peaks, now alive
in mindful conquest
our shimmer brings them
from the haze:
a cream-gray singer with a
like a sapphire in a smoky room.
a slender vixen soars
with Basquiat’s crown
and lips sweeter than the West. one
with impatient eyes,
puffed cheeks and my first father’s beard,
like bits of braised rice née beanstalks.
lingerer, flaunting humble comfort,
and one, half-plated, a silent brown
in whispering green mist.
they smell our intrusion from
Her sultry familiarity
and gather in our wake
as we lust-wonder through her swollen
in what would be trespassing
and because we’ve never
known her, they watch.
look, you say, your voice
a virgin’s guide, inside
them. frozen to reason, our prints
half-filled, they open to a glance. inside them,
like pearls she could spit, is
of our ruin,
unadorned with her exoticism or
the signature of aimless desire.
it smiles from these eager depths,
leaning into our discomfort from the sunken
angelblooms. it thrives in new obeisance,
and fanged among the husks of coils and
inside the loved.