a slow commotion
gives suck to the skies

the women who bake for
poets paint their toenails -

Lorca's stars half close
their eyes�����I'm laid out

by the woman's face
as a hatchet, brave

as the black puddle
in front of the butcher's

window - my open hand
might it give my future

to madrigals and contraries
the moon's rare dance

through the clouds


� 2004 by PJ Nights