this hostage situation
beats as a rug
or a zombie drummer,
where no cadence collects,
nor the souchers of
knotted lips can
keep mouths. you a tarpaulin
raygun in lakeside pants
taking from me the last
synthetic rib, construct
from the plicas these
finite heliotrope women,
each with polar acumen,
crossbows and marksmanship,
each open breasted to icewinds,
buttering hair to scalp
to brain again. the alternate
librarian, native island girl,
falls into henna sheets
leather and gristle, a periphery
of face egg whites. I am only
this thing, 444 days old, learning
bisque intentions as we go.