Some say
That unicorn free fountains
May be the product
Of an ancient code
Hidden in the runes
Of our ribs.
Sometimes after
Being bitten
Letters appear
On the gnarled
Wood bark of tree,
Or the plump
Roundness of fruit.
Speak on
The corners
Of your skin
As your fingers
Blink dark ink.
Often
At midnight
Have you felt
The horn
Grow
In the moonlight
As you caper?
Whinny and canter
At the quarter
Past midnight,
And find the trails
of your alphabets.
A map to a place
Where your unconscious fountains
May run deep
Prance in **** truth
Much like stars
Skinny dipping
In dark
Familiar ponds.