Consider a fluid butterfly,
a purple star that flitters through the night
upon the feet of porcupines
whose tarantella dance
eclipses both the sun and moon
when the oceans offer daydreams
to children who have sparks for eyes.
I watched this languid creature
spitting horseshoes at the sun
and turned its wings into a mask
that sang in harmonies as varied as
the contours of your face.
Its shape was like the twelfth dimension
of a hair that grew on the ass
of the most beautiful baboon.
And this is how I found the secret
that was dripping from the folds
that hid behind your undulating
earlobe
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