The wind-taxi celebrates
the fall of the totem queen.
The horse runs with a pistol through rainfall.
In a century long ago,
she runs her finger along the corner of her lips.
Behind the foreskin of history,
the queen disrobes and plays cards with the moon.
The wind allays her fear
with the gift of darkness.
I will pay two pence to bury her shadow
if you burn your breasts in sacrifice.
* * *
Seven legends descend on St. Patrick’s Day
with the scent of long nuclear winters.
Wild rainforests run along your dreams
like the uncircumcised teeth of laughter.
Lilith strokes the song on the mountains
and unfurls the passion
in the castle of sleep.
Your lovers studying the storm in your breast
will bury her sacrifice in their dead alphabets.
* * *
Blood on a musician’s fingers,
this is the slow pulse of desire,
the slow grinding out of the universe
in a dust-bowl of laughter.
This is not love, but almost history.
Policemen stroke your bed now
with the white tendril of a tooth-fairy.
* * *
The queen lets death fall from her hair
and holds out a spoonful of moonlight.
The cards of history lie crumpled
beneath the robe and the laughter.
Only the moon sharpens her pistol
on the rock of desire.
Library of Mirrors 