Pale lips flex her slim ivory face. I imagine her life translucent, Travelling calmly by capillary force Along the sheltered side of potted leaves, Lit by ambient sun.
How foreign, that sun! Mine hurts. I thrust it On enemies or I eat it. It burns me with love for clamorous women Heroines with vicissitudes, Who had babies Or never had babies, Ones with scars, ones mid-chapter. Oh my heart. Viragos Who build themselves out of glass Every morning from shards they find in their beds.