The red deer, tight-hipped and coveting
the diamond, stunning in emulation’s
wither of hawthorns, her shadow sweating
in fall’s weathering beds. The minor poets remain
a solid pillar of husbandry, annual banding
of the swine’s urban peasantry.
The charm of profitable enclosure.
We shall all own a million chandeliers.
And that Pope with the face of a spider
convenes with congers in the endless Vatican drains
to dream of a good blowfly season.
Grate the speckled bird, great apple pie.
Come here to rest your elbow upon a girl?
I lean in closer to misread the ledger.
Farmers have arms, we are liberated
to analyze this dark drivel for pay and to aver
that we are the Burning Will, the desired monsters
of all those classical deportments.
Aphrodite breast-deep in snow. Your absurdly
white fingers, fashioning
sheets of foliage from her back flesh, as Apollo
finally solves the riddle of the puddle.
Some blood attracts the more ambitious bees
and they would sting the red deer, and so
the story must continue in the reboot
of “The Anemone’s Fatal Fingertips”.
We were seduced into the water
and we entered fully clothed, thinking
there might be an inspection later.