Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

November 30, 2004

Three Women

The moon is a bullet wound
in the indifferent back of night,
a shawl thrown moodily
upon the earth.

The sun dances full-bellied
on the other side; it is a mock widow,
whore thief, stealing teeth from
the dead man, charming
a few coins before the fire.

And I foolishly imagine desert
bombs illuminating my night,
unable to deny the vice
of either lover tonight,
in its peace, or tomorrow,
that already burns alive.

Posted by Delire at November 30, 2004 06:46 PM
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