villanelle



                                             spit apart

                                             the rhyme



                                      I have a scheme



                                             the dialect of thyme

                                                     mother grew-


                                             as my schema lay naked

                                             in a room of napalm,


                                             childhood darts

                                             stick like syringes

                                             in plaster.


                                             A rhyme spit

                                             in a turned palm:

                                             grilled.


















                                                                liturgy
									

									




                                                         scarab lit, our mouths

                                                                     hieroglyphic as dirges
									  
									  



                                                                             closed around gallstone fingers
										  
										  



                                                         we are                            threadbare bodies

                                                         of locust trees,
								
								



                                                         nocturnal plumage,


                                                         labia prayers to papyrus

                                                         flanks,        embalmed

                                                                     stains of


                                                          taste. pomegranate & feline.














         
   




e-mail the poet at MuZeOFsappho@aol.com

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