Nevermore, an arbitrary of loveless . . .
that's going back to the Conquistador
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
--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
57 minutes ago