And She Is Incandescent Yet But

And She Is Incandescent Yes But

Fearfully, fearfully yours,

universe,

I belong fearfully to

my past self,

and she is incandescent, yes,

but vicious

she throws things around haphazardly,

has little regard for these bones of smoke.

This fragile skin of a collapsing

bloom

don’t think there is no shadow

in the rose garden, no cutlery clanging

in the recording of the night.

She wears this pigeon-gray Zeppelin shirt

and takes it off. She lies on the sticky

chest of indifference,

then rolls to the side.

She wakes early to the sound of rain

and it feels like relief

to the forehead,

then she falls asleep again.

She does not acknowledge the

Quaking Vacuum of Terror,

which is preoccupied but

has not forgotten.

And she is incandescent yes

but vicious.