Words on one side, none on another;
between them, secret smiles, a tolerance
for pain and the nights of long dreams
fire chasing what is caught in the high wind
of the binding gut-level blindness
of spent battery. Scent of lion’s teeth,
the soft, yellow heads, weeding their refusal
to be declared the natural collateral
of another hungry idea seeded by the flying man
in dreams of immortality. What grows here
always flies to its fall and what is fallen
will be consumed beyond its given name
turning the defiant shine of resting face
from the hungry tongues, declaring
at last a body beyond words, back
to an original mouth.
Milk Witch
Between blooms.