Acetylene

Her breath is soft as smoke,

Coiling from deep lungs

As though an endless fog.

Stripped-down like an old car,

She is the art of an

Old year, eyes as pale and

Limp as grey-green water.

The birds have flown in the

Eastern skies, and tremble

In their tiny, tender

Nests. Her motions are slow

As some deathly iceberg

Entrenched in deep seas. I

Myself follow those steps

As though born on by ghosts

And winds. My sail glides

Aloft in trespassing

Breezes where the storm lies.

I have stripped bare the paint

And lines and cracks of art,

For my breath is hotter,

Motions swifter: my eyes

Cast frailty aside

Like some leaden burden.

I burn. Like oil burns,

Fallen gems in the black

Of your deep underground.

Midnight comes and drapes

Her swaying grace in stars,

Wrapped by secret fabric.

Life is a bitch, and she’s

In heat. Laid down like some

Gentle child, skin as ice

And voice clothed in anger.

Her soul is black, bruised as

Fruit. She moves iceberg slow.