“Band Without a Leader”
If it leads by the teeth of your leash
pour me into the blind white pint
of a bald leopard curse striking pink
these goggles know holy waters
dead lips
these goggles last you merry winters,
for merry are we the “volcano sisters”
in seismic semaphore,
in seizures casting grooves in holy silence
splashing a hold on you:
the veined gloves, the throttle of control
I’d like to breathe a birthday wish
through to your carcass in ripples
these swirling universes
the steel private of a thief
whip-its of lead
peel me a rose from a real treat
titters and an ice-cold glass
the grapes are window-dressing
and tell me, tell me, tell me
to tease your wings to flakes of frost
I’d fall all over the weasel of you.
nicholauspatnaude 