it's an act of war.
insects and pins
nailed on black velvet beyond me
in the hall
in the big brimmed hat
flirting behind the counter
raped and mounted
they keep the buggy butterflies in those black
and glass cases.
the netted you in texas
in the kitchen.
in the bakery
i didnt know by how much i was lost
unwrapping hunks of multicolored butter
the fat and flesh of 100 different women.
every time i cry, it's for you.