Nine-Thirteen Landays

A falcon’s wing is the sweetest curve
except for the clean shape of a woman’s scimitar.

The wind from the heights smells of cedar,
the marketplace smells of broken hearts and rusted chain.

You draw the princess out from her fort.
She comes forth surrounded by hawks, hounds, and wild horses.

Young girls run through pomegranate groves
while the manticore gnaws his chains and lashes his tail.

My chariot has wheels of hot stone.
Touch that medlar and I will ride you down in dirt.

Break stones in the desert to find love:
go home fulfilled only by the scorpion’s burning kiss.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside