Breast-ache woman, you beautify
behind redden scars
and befriend those who are
free from languid storm-hair.
I see you rate the raw breast-worship
of frantic whistles which collide against the
callus freckles of a moon-sea.
You ask, "Can you see the satellites that sate
lights of the city...Creating
causeways or ways to cause
the first chill of dirt in a Martini?"
I take a drink.