light rinses her hair on a taxidermic
dove, sat like wooden wavicles on a
shadow planet.
persued by a scented black candle that
smells of unfillable holes.
as a woman prospects a circumference,
tells herself she came for the music--
not the food.
an angel born of mistaken identity,
walks through the blueprint of a garden--
& is told: 'you didn't touch a thing.'
as with the involution of ears, spirals
whistle like rope thru snake skin.
an evil repellent of sorts, or a courtesy
to superstition.