I have followed the asphalt of your spine’s
rough mile; on down by swelter-greased steepness;
by back alley’s cant; by your obscure shrine’s
massive quaking hills — into your darkness
— shivering dark. This red-tongue landscape.
Tatterhood. Gaped girl-thing in dark jungle.
I must gauge this myth by the span and shape
of your splayed-out hips, the taste of your skull,
where your fox-headed guide leads me to play.
To pray at your shrine — to out fox the fox —
to gauge your gape stretched lush and surreal.
I’ll breathe in your dark, your ideal. The way
city’s breath makes a park real — or a box
breathing in the ground makes broken bones real.