I know the world has only space for a woman and her heart, her ******* emblazoned in the trees, her depths in voluminous books – let only the saltine water touch her brindled body atilt amongst the lilies in the silver dawn
and that her cusped hands demand a softer hue of love whereas the salacious wind continues its grasp championing things both fragile and sturdy: the world slides in the coloured curve of a woman and the men dare too, follow the road where they meet first with death sitting still with the roses like a splendid fragrance stilled in the mind leading you to a garden which thorns are ensconced in a smoothness that sings salutations to love – as I remain to be nose-deep sheath after sheath, **** after ****, stalking the perfume of the world a woman owns.