the paradox

the paradox

beneath the acetate dinosaurs

stuck in technicolour herds on a woman’s back –

spiny as though misdirected tree roots

are set to burst through a boardwalk

pale, abysmally pale, with desert dust –

the adhesive ointment – probably pawpaw –

loses its emulsion in the butane sun

bleeds out unbecomingly and runs

in snail tracks

in city grids

in prison bars

in forgotten tears –

the skin around them burns – the air

smells of skin on fire and petrichor

and her black hair a reflection of the storm clouds

and her bamboo dress a windsock

and her boyfriend naked to his corkboard sandals –

but the dinosaurs, I know, will soon be lost

flicked, licked or oozed unstuck – a long

voyage from their place of origin

(a factory in Zhejiang, or Guandong)

an even longer layover on pristine land

and in the air as party to the Great Poisoning.