#57

Sketch my skins in lines, colour. Watermarks. The windows opened eastward. There I was in summer sun exposed. Free, until they cut me down. Her light on half my parts. "Tulips as tulips," I wrote. And a necklace of teeth for sowing. So reflect what you are, she said. Not me, long-haired and glinting though, afraid. The boy on the corner, and the neighborhood boys. Their success was undeniable.

She had two strings to her bow now, and a scut between her thighs. A cunt that bleeds. Smudge and smell: bleared and smeared. The word: jettison. Climb the steps on White Street. Summer blue beyond compare. Find me in a stranger's hall, she without the heart she won. It has flamed out, groundless in its roving grandeur.