I was willowy
once before
the labyrinth of stars
came into corneal.
Before you played your best hand.

In the didgeridoo desert then,
a snaky wind
would speak
a spell of future
in which our
renaissance languished
like prime cut of
baby **** covering
me as a layer of calgon.

So where is this God in all
directions when the search
for love is over?

My medieval knees can't find
anyone anywhere.


Sara Fielder © Apr 2018