Rumored angels with bamboo spines
Half in lust with silence and snow-white shadows,
Powerful as bronze with elegance blurred,
Where the honeysuckle wept
For a drained, wild-haired Heaven
Afforded no mercy when appointing the Stars
Curators of our private collection of madness.

Crudely framed in sharp-edged balsam pines
Laced with sprays of mimosa,
She hangs, in darkness and off-centered
In a portrait from which she has never stepped,
And boldly grumbles with a poisonous charm
Polluting her creamy voice, 'If I have no other lover,
At least I should have the Sun!'�

In cramped closets, we cover our scars
With hundreds of tingling dollar bills
And wait for my loaves of stone to leaven
On her gnarled windowsills.

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