CHILDBIRTH


Nevermore, an arbitrary of loveless . . .

that's going back to the Conquistador

dust shimmering
on top of
other tall or deeper endless dusts

like a scar so ridged you might ponder her anger

the delicate legs

the ash-blue lashes dreaming of a counterless weather

it's a strange kind of falling

and then living to fail . . .

it's the down when she sleeps in her glass mountain range

Soft Chardonnay

--or where the buttons fly south--

from the red-painted toes

to the Valley of the Echoing Stars with its promise of milk--

you can't see her dreams standing in the rain anymore--

and blessed endings