we are the New Heat
& we are a murmurous haunt in the bushes
& we are turning out our pockets
& watering the county with our coin
& what if orange ichor runs dendrite
through June’s body & nature
is naturally melodramatic?
Always succumbing to the blaze & choke
of its own coppery cotillion gown
before springing back to life
in Season Two. How long can it last?
This cyclical desire softly locked
& unlocking, a rabbit fur chastity belt.
What swells in us, stressing its point
past perfect? Me must knock on a New Door.
How about this one: square & bone-handled
& barely too small for a car to come though.
Deep in the keyhole, something glows.
Night raises her cold cathedral.
We step out into the desert together
a single pistol between us
& a night-blooming flower
whose petals burn off by morning:
a touch of pink, a stench, a victor.
The New Year Begins Now
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