Lone pine lorn
is my heart.
Willowy, hanging, tangled
is my hair.
Dim light, we kept apart.
Rejoice;
thinking of skin, bare.

Bewildered I have felt before,
but nothing such as this.
Adore, ardor, my centaur-
deep molasses kiss.

Playing cards, a time out of mind...
'Playing with embers', he said,
filled with sun,
in my mind I am already Hell-ward,
to hell.
My cheeks enflamed,
a burnt offering of shame.

As my own darkness engulfed me
I looked to the Archer of Light,
whose blunt bolts (belonging to the bow),
and shrouded, virile, animus intention
has already bore through mine own virtue.
And whose prospering scepter of ambition
I felt, once,
in a dream somewhere,
pressed, blistering against my form.

Looming life of doom.
How I miss you, cursed one,
who bleeds my own blood.

Lights shine on bright eyes.
Stark sky; merely a dead stage-
new moon, no moon, gone.

Two Chinese ladies,
and a lightless lantern with
empty kimono.

the wind throbs with the spit of wanton delight.
shall not Eternity emanate velvet abandonment?
a wet cave's oysters
Dang!
a wanderer quivers in frozen agony.
will not the sunset spew forth purple ecstasy?

Shadow cast,
who are you, dark drifter?
A speculation, as dreams are.

But consider
these wraiths of the mind are real,
as the author has spoken to herself in reverie,
and seen the celestial horizon,
in half-body, half-sleep.