Poetess Firefly


Would consciousness not be agar,
were it come to think in a Petri?

Who gets the high Sun–fruit in the snake–guarded tree?

Stove–tile stories told in the blues of King and Queen:
windmills and holding back the Sea.

They go without problems, to Balcony,
what philosophy, ever, has been topic–free?

Let ego venture, where he could not see.
Walked dark matter’s id, methodically.

Is consciousness not the very agar of its Petri?

The honeycomb biosphere from planet’s first dynasty
has a crystal vase where is budding
branch Hesperides–tree.


Caught crevice–stone, cacti find a home.
Below: aloes, hens and chickens.

Gypsies frequent the quarry in months of Sun.
Leave tamarinds to trees as ornament–rot,
to quartz–walls, leave poems when they go.

Moth wings obstruct paper–lamp’s candle,
let soft night dim–fade by their airborne dial
when quiet string–game alludes to act of strangle.

She is rope, frayed, been two–parts broken.

Acid had scarred rough, repeating tigrée–rays
to wallpaper’s pattern, up–thighs, over.

Hips hinge, off truth’s track turn, all elephant hide,
she is last wall–limit against demise.

Chance plays a game of chess alone:
moves both rock–volcanic, pieces tusk of bone.

I want to be a car herded in your flock.
Shepard sent you, Sheepdog, to guide a wolf out of the dark?

Extremes know not to be opposing a counterpart
so, cut dialectics at the very concept.