in the orbs around no world
my head buzzing full of flowers
rents each core
to be crushed by its orbit

until the tin on the moon turns
to the glint of a girl's eyes
her machinery draped in green silk
the eyes of her breasts angry
at the orbs, for not orbiting closer

and the eye of her vulva growing
pineal in sucked-out light
departing from the last hotel room
on this crater's curve
where she makes her home small and sharp
and dark on this divorced planet.