The horn beetle is lumbering,
six years a’drool.
Wings are outfoxing
a corpus
wandering for Renaissance.

I am stumbling,
six days starving towards fade;
hemispheres are plunged
into hands
seeking rest.

There is a son.
Unborn,
but drinking up time.
Looking for flesh parts
that outweigh the night.

I am a woman,
with seeds in my hair;
thirsty,
but denying,
my right to bleed.

Mustn’t there be
a hook and a hole;
punctured,
so for the needle to spill
the eye.

I am holding
in a word
never thought up.
Dreaming downwards
like rain, to die.