She is brave enough for any brand

tilting the earth, running into the show of hands,

a fast orange lust.

 

The hours send widows,

their shortness carried on the sands,

this way and that, all things passed –

ferocious concubines.

 

In movement, they delight

and show her the close of love –

a hill the shape of falling into

the count of infinite things -

the grains; small lips of the sun,

waiting for

 

each drifting low

and quick viper sex, and then the death -

an indigo

curled pursuit,

who wears her shoulder, cold and bare.