|photo by EJR ©|
under a forest burning, a womb bottled imp
and vanity plates
I want to be inside
your paper fortresses
when the fires begin...
with secure methods of delivery
and working back
to the beginning
we can keep you
from ever knowing
where you last leapt
wearing only an acute
awareness of sudden gravity...
I remember you singing something, maybe
screaming in haphazard Doppler melodies
about what a final resting pulse might
look, feel, sound and be like
and for me to beware of imitation schemes
meant to flatter me with undressing
as opposed to arming my senses
as the world would always continue
to burn down around me...