Oh gigantic woman of the swept-away!
On my doorstep this morning I found a red feather from your headdress,
the one made from a thousand caterpillar eyes, the one made with the spleens
of a million snow geese.
In your body of waterwheels,
in your of scales and skins of figure eights, there were infinite clocks!
In your ten-thousand minnow fingers and toes carved from the tongue of turtles,
the humongous orgasm-based human origin of falling stomach-pits
mixed counter-clockwise debris suns
with the moldy decibels of half-eaten hotdog buns.