like colored tinsel
on the trees. The metal coils
flapping in the breeze,
to seize the souls of men. Her stiletto

is her fountain pen. The ink
dripping, her blood, a mountain of
meter in lace gloves. The prosaic
ghouls have not cultivated

their tools. Their turgidity has no
mobility. Sits as stone. Two silhouettes
burned down as daddy's smoked
cigarettes. Crummy as mother's

week old scones. Her poetry beats
are milky as a cow's teats. But still
she drums on, praying for her lines
to spawn.