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At the heights of the world She
is the sign from God that strikes
from head to heart a meteor,
the seed a stigmata maker,
that semaphores in the wild subconscious
with graphs gulls make in air.
She is cinnamon that incites sinews of war,
yet the demon is mesmerized,
presumptuous Mars a Harlequin made,
a balancing egg on a wall, the colossus toppled
is a doll.
In miles of dust I travel dark on a catafalque
of reverie to emphasize evil spawned in
subways.
Now say goodbye to the capital I
in the stomach of the Capitoline Wolf,
a Cupid with cancelled eyes.
Having seen Diana once I'm Actaeon
with opened guts, meat on a table,
and moon cast predictions on my entrails,
thistles on thresholds, bile in a flower,
the woe of midnight blood.
But my albatross is a wish,
and Harlequin a Pan, who vents his spleen
on gabardine and knic -nac avenues,
and dances on nickles and dimes,
for that sexy lass of plexiglass
with eyes like dollar signs.
Soon, if the perfect eye opens,
a bird will whistle in the clear,
and downwind the cross pollination
of skipping bee combinations.
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