Milk
Drops Turned Diamond
The
names are
essential,
that we
each
know them,
we
who sound like
cows'
dreams
when
we speak
(the
names of favorite
flowers
will do,
pollinated
in the veiled
synaptic
dream-
flow
brought out as
the
inverse of any
convenient
'present'
in
which we suck
the
owl's teats that
grow
out of the Kali
sows
that rise like
pearls
charmed by
the
undertow from
the
sea's depths
as
whitecaps
that
guard the waist
of
the void: How else
could
it be, to have
Our
Lady's pure
neurological
semen
ooze
up and out
and
down behind
eyes
that being two
still
see a single
thing,
the neck of
sleep
broken just so
movement
can
exist
and make
the
distance of
her
heartbeat
a
memory invisible
yet
clearly present
enough
to worship.
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