The bloody reticulated abdomen
of somnambulant zebras
is not to be mistaken for
the way my mother dances
in flowing shards of pink
volcanic glass
while drinking liquid stars
and laughing at the flowers
of unknown muskrats.
I have seen days when she flows
through amber rhythms of sound
and puffs her adder tail
to the melody of bladed
peacock tails which pierce her
to the heart
to find it made of cheesecake
and fine wine.
These were the days
when all the hoary headed ostriches
reached into their bags
to find the fluids of solar wealth—
those magic monkey chips
with which the other moons of green
had made their profound philosophies
of statuesque delirium.
Had I not flowed through those legs
like the ice of contaminated fleabane,
I might have mistaken them
for the years
in which your lovely breasts
of iron and fire
had grown into the corn of Babylon
the rich grains of flowing gems,
of vibrant, radiating hair.
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