A Woman is but the Land beside the River

A woman is but the land beside the river
Flowing into the original sins of the fluids.
Her throat, the curve over the valley,
a steaming volcano from the fresh wraths of a love, lost.

The cultivable land
The axe
The seeds
The sprout.
The summers of her man
As a distant canvas.

No lizards cross the wall
Nor do snakes, on the road
Only frozen pole stars,
Waiting for the womb,
The red earth
beneath the grave of fireflies.





Popular posts from this blog

The Insult


The Hour Before You Commit Suicide