she's the volcano
in my bedroom and
my heart, a chandelier made
out of fireworks
that had burned all night
in a flame-race, howling upwards

she looks better in
one of my old t-shirts
to my stretched-out eyes
than i ever would in
a ballroom gown,
i was not blessed with
the bust for a corset,
with all my life throbbing in my throat

under my sheets, groping
she is an octopus wearing lacy crystals
who has tasted a man's flesh
and collapsed in a slither
at the charred-out caves
in big, good America

after a hectic twenty minutes
she is honey-pale and
falling into empty light
shivering in my bed-boat
her hair slammed back
against the stern, the spray scything upwards