Woman of the earth, come for me.

Make me at home in your smile.

Let these meteors be

mistaken for stars, let all

the fortune cookies open.

Let the little scrolls fall out

on a savage highway stilled

in a moment of pre-dawn sleep,

let the little fetters roll.

Make a satin bow sing

at both ends, let your skin sweat

like a simmering bowl.

Give me the silk paths

of a suffering twilight,

let the pools rebound

with tortured alphabets,

let the dancing bones assemble

in a lit hangar, for a craft

that comes and is repaired

in the clefts and little valleys

of your trickling hair.

Let the snare recline

and snooze in its ooze

of echoes.  Let the little bands

play around a cliff

of raging violins.  Make the latch

knock at the geometric haze

and the angels laze on polished maple.

May your thighs detect

a radiant series in my fork

of resurgent tongues, may

the meat sunrise come.

Allow the flag's retreat

from stems and spirals

of a liquid landscape,

shape with your dancing hands

my lurking and immediate brand,

all the glues holding laser-scarred

sand, emit your chain of eggs

where my hearth is waiting

with a trail of ice leading

to crammed cases and

a salvaged piano's bright

wedge of breathing land.