A shooting star sprinkles cocaine above the ravine where a sack lies.
The wind rustles an afternoon by while I am tightened in dainty lace.
The star dust-
s my lips, an empty exchange, like a parrot On Repeat, On Repeat, On Repeat.
Lace does not accentuate curves. I do not have any to begin with.
He holds a pistol in his suit like a tree does an autumn leaf.
The parrot wishes it were a butterfly to disperse like vapour into space,
but it cuts the cake of sugar and fat.
When the bell rings, that’s when you go to your room,
while you watch shadows fight under the door in shapes
of scooters and bikes and planes.
This Kingdom is certainly sweet,
there are trunks of stars and cakes and inducements for your ears,
but every night, the parrot faces the fox
from its window and harks to the ground:
Lace is for a Saint, not for a parrot!
The jittering hawks slide mangoes under the door.
The lace veil is an anchor.
Sunlight promises make you dance until your kneecaps break.
To tan is to want home is to have the pistol pressed to your throat,
and running through pines on mango scraps will trap you
in the fox’s web.
A shooting star sprinkles cocaine above the ravine where I lie like a sack.