when asked to stack stones she builds houses/

semi-permanent habitats for passing thought

biblical drift, semantic shifts/

doxa, glory, God in translation                    …

What would you like to take for granted today?

Michelangelo

Cardigan-boy kisses on the dance floor while I’m juggling the greenblueyellowpurple flashslam FLASH into my face, down my dress, drowning out my eyes and entering the slamFLASHslamlike the body of the man who used my tongue before it tasted of wool and gin with his cut-off shirt and his sculptor’s turn.

And maybe his name was Greg, or David. I usually think it’s David. It hardly ever is.

Canopic Jar

She turns the spoon slowly, stirring the peanut butter between licks of her oiled lips. “It’s salty! Not sweet? It was always sweet. As a kid I had it.”

Not since then?

“No, no,…” puzzled query of the self, checkingchecking, runonthebanks but “No!”.                                                            sure of herself this time.

It’s good, right?
This ain’t Smuckers, babe.
Spoon dips, lipspartempty. Tattoo of Ka on an olive egg calf and supper for Isis because she’s hungry allthetime, so full of it in flesh, perfume and the gods know she’s on my couch, lounging drapped with folds of pin-stripped duvet and pecking at jasmine tea, leaves in cichlid-blue waters too hot to swim.