vultures, not swans. Their eyes
are lumps of coals. They’ve black hearts
and no souls.

They see
woman as little pits. Once they take
the flesh of the cherry they spit out the stone,
flossing their teeth with the stem, waxing their bone.

They see
the world in gnarly
twisted weeds, as red herrings
and blind sheep.

They see
themselves as Swiss cheese,
razor blades and purple haze,
new money and smoke screens,
the lottery, climbing ladders and home teams.