Shared in Nexus The Sunday Whirl #219

White pillows at night descend.
Pain sounds its celestial sorcery;
absent silence.
Breasts,
glass,
wind,
the mirage that returns
because there’s twilight.

I don’t cry
because there’s no fire,
no grief masturbation,
no dilation to raise my second thought,
neither hanged nor dead dog,
neither bombastic, nor Jesus, nor father, nor virgin.

But I don’t think much about the unreality of things
they’re just dust shared in nexus.
Death for a woman is transparent
it’s male and bandaged.

Someday we’ll greet all our fans with gestures
superstitious and pale.

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