Come, oh come moola I plead,
Fill my twig with thy blead,
Thy presence makes rife,
Thy absence

Empathy your essence enwraps,
Care your core nappes,
In your blaring whines
From a thousand

Woolgathering, passing footnotes a slow,
On this path where hooves before did tow.
With the script

On the sixth day of May, 1987
Giselle Belfond awoke at five A.M
Stretched languidly in defiant

During the hours of daybreak
when I wake at the crack of dawn
I’ll follow the rhythm of your

Aphrodite, immortal, enthroned in wonder,
Sky-daughter, webstress of schemes, I entreat you
not to

In the age of America people all too fondly wage wars on the page
They sit at desks and write of

The arcane punch and whirr and strike,
pinned paper butterflies to tattoo,
kill king and create