TORCH WOMAN

It's alright baby.
I understand.
I'm just too much, right?
for this sluggish land.
The wattage is too high
for this little lamp
burning oil
from your radiant hair
each strand a prism
and my prison
like a fire-fly
caught in a glass jar
(did you know that glass is a slow-moving liquid?)
shards of shock,
sharp droplettes of surrender
sex shimmering like stars
against a flooded sky of fluttering
black doves

So who's holding the light
at the end of the birth canal?
You best pray It's more benevolent
than banal.

You can feel God's breath
on the nape of your neck
in these woods,
a curly forest
of forensic fullfilment
and headlights winking between browning leaves...
Can you see the trees?
Can you see the trees?
These silouhettes of dashed dreams,
Can you see the trees?
Can you see the trees?
Tell me
you can see the trees...