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Maybe she's all the colors I can't see.
Or maybe she's the cradle, watching me.
A bushel of time time could not use, unraveling.
Her form's curves portrayed in my navel.
Stormed trees cut off from the earth.
Hinter people neighing in parcels.
A drubleck miracle'd the face of the door,
the knock without a question.
A breathing that goes on after bodies.
That of expansion, the crotch of all mythology.
I begged your prophets to fuck with me.
I tore my rags of perfection and my nakedness
refused to sneer with pleasure at the street.
My clasp unbuckled many treehouses.
I hid among those whose limbs had never been fitted
for the ongoing machine-echo of death.
And we flowered inward deeply to destroy
some part of ourselves, but the weaponry of those tendrils
became roots, that held strangely fast.
Now world-particle, fire of the arc's
scythe compassion.