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.