Don’t turn away from me
in my pink underskirts and skin tags.
Leopards and finch-flight
against the early hours.
I sink faster with fists clenched.
Neither of us swung through any trees.
Our palms cooled with coins.
Your fragrance, your fragrance!
It makes frangipani gag! you sang.
It makes tiare cringe! you sing.
Add isobars, waterspouts.
It comes out of the ground and is lit on fire.
Weeks are white, weeks are white.
My belly has ropes and pulleys.
The rope made of flax is silken.
The rope made of pulleys is older.
Once you’re in there with all the rusting
washing machines and cicada husks
just you and your radioactive half-life
these winds don’t seem so bad.