To avert the blood

and see the vault of heaven

constructed like a snail shell

descending out of time

an angry tusk, whole arsenals

of flowers spilling from

anointed glass,

one smooth table at horizon's dawn,

three weapons of coitus

and a mortgaged womb,

stammering in the coils of

a great soul's antique apparatus.

On upper story lawns

of groomed rooftops

and ripening siloes

sits the empty flask, drained forever

of its potency and dry

beyond the roads

of consciousness it rides

she conquers time's analysis

with a liquid fist

fragile as a nuclear plant.