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.
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