FINISH THE WINGS FOR MONA LISA

The song of the cicada has to be the epitome 1,000 times its own weight
of the stunning: a red lady
the wafer-thin bones of the face flow of energy upward
the twisted stamens of blooms that have long called the watery planet

the smell, the stab of the thorn, you form a pianist, a marksman--
the moon once baked in constant mesh
twisted skeins of hair energy in a flood
a crystal of copper day duplicated on earth
fluoresce through its black paper wrapping
and five billionths of this flocked to have their skulls read
elite among atom-smashers

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