Whether nectar sings or walks within wings,
or splits her spine with spice
and splices the night with bullets
until dawn oozes out
the feathered purveyor;
of fickle and fish fin between
a dead man's gum--
His bride was gilled at the lips
and buried his bones to rest
with a crucifix etched into his skull
like the layers of lime and orange
you'd taste at twilight first;
Or the feeling of soil between
marrow and blood when a wind
trips over a winding well,
will the nectar rather roll itself into stone,
or unravel a ribbon into water--
and float on to the west by morning
and drown herself from spine to tooth in poetry.














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