“Wet Apples”
Two black eyes
a heart full of teeth
rivers gush to tell our troubles
rivers rush fish for us
and though we grovel
at the thighs of dawn
and fall down butterfly slides
the hanging lamp in the jungle stills
through green mists the wings of insects
blows your horn through the fog
projects candy films, rings the inn
for us weary warriors to be lifted
by living cat pillows’
incisions stitched with black thread,
ten claws reserved for punishments
amputated with care by silken drawers.
nicholauspatnaude 
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