apaurusheya
proclaims the floral tag
in henna-style font
overtopping her low
rave cargo pants – five-pocketed, blue as
Archimedes’ orb is blue
midriff skin brown and mole-mottled
as the wooden plank poised on
its fulcrum to tip all people to Patagonia
and build anew
the dance-around wool mountains.
it’s true, the t-shirt’s for sale
a few stores further into market
and her tag, which
he with Archimedes levers back and forth
to be near her sacred globes
as they lie in their sutra love pose
says on its underside
‘NOT COLOURFAST’.
many perfumes
mask many sweeter odours.
bad Californian accents
betting on who gets the girl with corvettes and
Aspen penthouses pass. Being shivers.
leaks ecstasy - Being is
urinating under the moon in a dew-glossed meadow.
clouds like sweetbreads part
granting views of hidden hills
as though Usas were opening
only now the multi-hinged
doors of night so the sun could resume
his courtship. ghost hills, in whose gullies
birdsong answers itself in echo
only louder, the cries of a panicked lost lover
drawing arrows in red dirt
drawing blood on straightened arms pointing dead ahead
etching into barkless trees
grace lines – then a truck, and
hay the only perfume.
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