The guitar at the end of my pick
strings a song from the laundry drip-drying
in the wind of the languishing brick
that walls smiles from teary eyeing,

strings a song from the laundry drip-drying
into my semi-lipped demi-mouth
that walls smiles from teary eyeing
of the brass-breasted woman, whose now

into my semi-lipped demi-mouth
spills the well of a cremated beauty
of the brass-breasted woman, whose now
blanks my blood till its vehement duty

spills the well of a cremated beauty
onto sheets of the pure; striped snow
blanks my blood till its vehement duty,
till its unplanted lip, till I grow

onto sheets of the pure, striped snow
in the wind of the languishing, brick
till its unplanted lip, till I grow
the guitar at the end of my pick.


11.5.98